


Push(ing) Down on Me

by raiining



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, BDSM, Coming Untouched, Crying After Sex, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Hand Feeding, Human Trafficking, Kink Negotiation, Kneeling, Knifeplay, M/M, No Blood, Public Humiliation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Semi-Public Sex, Slavery, Sub!Crowley, Subdrop, Subspace, Undercover, Whipping, attention whore Crowley, dom!Aziraphale, good communication despite awful circumstances, internalized slut shaming, pain play, seriously they try so hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 87,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24073099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: Crowley scowls. “Here in London?”Fell nods. “We have the address.”“And you want me to arrest him today so you can take his place tomorrow?”Fell blinks.Gabriel barks out a laugh. “You told me he was quick.”Fell glances at him. “I did.” He looks back to Crowley. “Yes, that’s exactly what I want to do.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 785
Kudos: 654
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Most Favs, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [vgersix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgersix/pseuds/vgersix). Log in to view. 



> I'm so excited to finally be able to share this with you! I've been working on this one for way too long, sandwiching it between other works. HUGE thanks to Kazeetie, Muzakchan, Nied, and Bellz for the cheerleading and beta'ing! This one took an army.
> 
> For those aware of my Marvel works, I view this as a spiritual successor to "The Underground." It was, however, directly inspired by Vgserix's amazing "Getting Sacked." 
> 
> Title from "Under Pressure" by Queen.

“This is bullshit,” Crowley growls, throwing his folder down. It bursts open, scattering grim black-and-white crime scene photos across the boardroom table. Eighteen months of detective work. Solid detective work. _ His  _ detective work. “This is my case. I don’t care who they fucking are, they can’t — ”

“They’re Interpol,” Detective Chief Inspector Beelzebub says grimly. “So yes, they can.”

Crowley glares. “That international fucking organization can’t do shit. I don’t work for them.”

“No,” Beeze says sternly, “you work for me. And I work for Morningstar. And _ he  _ says we’ve got to cooperate with the bootlicking bastards, and so that’s what we’re going to do!” 

Crowley throws his hands up in the air. “But it’s my case!”

“And we’re very thankful for all your hard work,” a smarmy voice interrupts from the doorway. Crowley whips around to stare at the my-shit-don’t-stink asshole walking into the conference room. Perfect hair, wide shoulders, and fucking hell, is that a _ custom tailored coat?  _ Crowley isn’t being paid enough to deal with this shit. “You did a great job, really. Top-notch. That’s why we’re here. We have some additional information we’d like to share.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley spits. “And what’s that?”

“This,” the second man walking into the conference room says. He’s shorter than the first guy and rounder, too, with close-cropped curly white hair and vivid blue eyes. He’s wearing a beige-and-white suit as if to contrast the first asshole’s black-and-lavender monstrosity, and he catches Crowley’s gaze even through the sunglasses. To his credit, he holds it. 

“Aziraphale Fell,” the man says, stepping forward and holding out his hand. Thrown off his guard, Crowley accepts it. Fell’s grip is smooth and strong without being overpowering. It’s only when he lets go that Crowley notices that he’s holding a folder of his own. Unlike Crowley’s, it’s perfectly in order. Fuck, the pages are probably legible, too. 

“Anthony Crowley,” Crowley growls, forced into politeness and not happy about it. In an attempt to regain the upper hand, he leans back against the table and folds his arms. “Detective Inspector.”

Fell inclines his head. “Indeed.”

The first guy waves a hand. “And I’m Gabriel — Gabriel Choir of Interpol — but we aren’t here to talk about me.” He grins with too-perfect teeth. “Tell them, Azira.”

Fell looks between Crowley and Beezlebub. “May I?”

Beeze shrugs and looks at Crowley. Crowley wants to throw a chair. “Fine,” he says. “Fine! I was only about to make the biggest arrest of my career, but it’s fine. Show us what’s in the fucking folder.”

“The key, if we’re lucky, to an even bigger arrest,” Fell says calmly. He walks easily around Crowley and stops at the head of the table, deftly avoiding the scattered crime-scene photos as he opens his folder. “Please allow me to explain,” he continues, laying out paperwork. “You, Detective Inspector Crowley, have been working for the past eighteen months on a particularly stubborn human trafficking case. We know this because you or a member of your team have accessed the Interpol database on several occasions, often to cross-check names and faces with known international associates. You’ve had a couple of hits, but nothing major; mostly you’ve been pursuing local leads. The success of these leads has led you to conclude that the trafficking ring is British in nature, organized here in London. 

“You have concluded that they accept the victims of other, more international groups, and then launder those victims through the British system. For example, a shipping container with Person X arriving from the Philippines may arrive at the Port of London. The ring you have been investigating will be present when the container is opened. They will take Person X into their custody, provide them with fake documents, enroll them in a hiring agency, and finally employ them in a restaurant, cleaning company, or other such service looking for cheap, easy to hire labour. This ring will have been paid a significant amount by the international organization and will be paid again by the employment agency. When hiring is low, they partner with organized crime, selling people into a life of prostitution or service. All of this is seamlessly arranged. Because the contacts they use are on the darknet, they are untraceable. No link between groups can ever be made.” Fell pauses in his explanation and looks up from his papers. “Is that correct?”

Crowley doesn’t want to be impressed. He scowls instead. “You know it is.”

Fell nods. “It would not surprise you, then, to learn that Interpol has been coordinating with other national police services regarding similar trafficking rings. Some police have, like you, focused on victims when they arrive in their new country, while others are point-of-contact affairs, with the aim of identifying and catching those who entice people away from their country of origin. It _ would  _ surprise you, perhaps, to learn that a third network exists: an international organizational advice network, not dissimilar to Interpol itself, actually, which coordinates the transfer of victims from their point of origin to their eventual destination. This third network links groups such as your London-based trafficking ring with international smugglers and even organized crime, making sure the transfer of victims is timely, profitable, and seamless. After all, no one likes to see dead bodies carried out of shipping containers, now do they?”

Crowley makes a face. That had been a dark day. “No, they don’t.” He shakes his head and looks down at Fell’s assembled paperwork. There are graphs, lists, and maps, several with cities circled on them. “You’ve found a link between our guys in London and this third network, then?”

Fell meets his eye and smiles. “Yes. In many ways, this third network is a ghost. Whoever they are, they have covered their tracks so thoroughly that we do not even know their name. We simply know that they sit as a spider in the web. They will accept an order for a certain number of victims from London, send out queries to the various smuggling operations they have links to, and facilitate the transfer of the number of victims required. They profit handsomely from both parties.”

Crowley scowls. “That’s dirty.” 

Fell nods. “Indeed. Unfortunately, it is also intelligent. In the eight years we estimate they have been in practice, they have made significant amounts of money and forged links with several international trafficking organizations, many of which despise one another. They have also gotten around tightening border controls, advised better forging services, and made our job of intercepting these people intensely more difficult. We estimate they have a small staff, do most of the coordinating themselves, and never, as we said, use their real names. We have been following their fingerprints across the globe without so much as an inkling as to who they might actually be.”

Crowley scratches his nose. “And now you think you’ve identified them?”

Gabriel chuckles. “Oh no, Detective Inspector. Now we finally think we’ve found a way to find a _ way  _ to identify them. Maybe. If we move swiftly, that is.”

“And that izz?” 

Crowley smirks. Beeze is getting impatient, they only buzz when they’re five seconds away from snapping. Crowley has half a mind to drag this out, just to see his D.C.I. tear into Gabriel. That would make his morning.

Fell, unfortunately, gets straight to the point. “Your connection in London is Luke Douglas. He’s the man you are planning to arrest shortly.”

It isn’t a question, but Crowley answers anyway. “Yeah. Let me guess — you want me to let him go?”

Fell raises his eyebrows. “On the contrary, Detective Inspector, I want you to arrest him immediately. Today, certainly, within the next hour, if possible. Time is of the essence.”

Crowley stares. “What?”

Fell smiles. “You see, D.I. Crowley, Luke Douglas has done well. He has all but taken over the London human trafficking operations. He has profited by this, and has ensured that others higher up the food chain have profited as well. He also, as you well know, has — particular interests — which likely drew him to the trafficking world in the first place.”

Crowley grimances. “You can say that again.” His eyes are drawn to the crime scene photos still scattered over the desk. 

Edith Lively. She’d been twenty seven when she’d been killed, thrown into a dumpster like so much trash. Crowley had taken point on the investigation. 

“Yes,” Fell says, following his gaze. “You followed the trail.”

Crowley scowls. “We got lucky. Edith had taken part in a research study when she was seventeen, her genetic information was on record.” She’d probably done it because they’d paid her sixty quid and had given her a sandwich. Edith had been a foster care kid who hadn’t finished sixth form and had fallen onto hard times. Crowley could relate. 

“We realized the name she’d been found under had been fake, followed that back to the forger who’d provided her new documents, and made the link between them and Douglas. It was only while investigating Douglas that we realized he’d gotten involved in human trafficking. He started with runaways avoiding the law, but now he handles everyone coming into London illegally.” 

“Yes,” Fell says. “Quite a meteoric rise. He’s only been in operation for a short time but he’s managed to make quite the name for himself.”

Crowley frowns. “You think he had help through this third network? Why?”

Fell hums. “The speed at which he’s moved, for one. His, what should we call them? Proclivities? For another.”

Crowley frowns. “You mean the sex stuff?”

Fell’s voice is dry. “To put it crudely.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Douglas is a sick bastard. He fucks a good number of his victims but it’s more than that. He... does stuff... to them.” He’s been on Douglas’s tail for months, but he still shudders. Edith had been strangled. Forensics had determined her death had likely been accidental, but she’d been tied up and blindfolded. It didn’t seem like she’d resisted, not at first, and she had bruises that were days old. At first they’d thought she’d been kidnapped, but forensics had eventually concluded it’d been a sex thing. Bondage. Then they’d learned that Douglas got into that with everyone he kept for himself — the victims he didn’t sell into regular employment or organized crime, or, at least, not until he was done with them — and he probably wasn’t consensual about it. Again, a sick fuck. Crowley shakes himself. “What does that have to do with this third network?”

Gabriel grins and glances at Fell. For all Choir’s apparent good humour, the look he shoots Fell is downright mean. “Oh, that’s quite the key to everything, as it turns out.”

Crowley watches the lines around Fell’s eyes tighten. His expression, though, never changes. “It has quite a lot to do with the third network. You see, Detective Inspector, we have learned that several highly placed members of the human trafficking world have a particular interest in ‘the sex stuff’ as you call it. It seems they are drawn to trafficking in part for that reason, as it provides them, like Douglas, a steady stream of vulnerable, desperate people who are forced, drugged, or seduced into that world. Those with similar proclivities gather at times to… enjoy their mutual interests. Luke Douglas has recently been introduced to this very exclusive society. He is due to appear at a gathering of such individuals tomorrow night.”

Crowley scowls. “Here in London?”

Fell nods. “We have the address.”

“And you want me to arrest him today so you can take his place tomorrow?”

Fell blinks. 

Gabriel barks out a laugh. “You told me he was quick.”

Fell glances at him. “I did.” He looks back to Crowley. “Yes, that’s exactly what I want to do.”

Crowley shakes his head. He doesn’t want to like Fell, but the man is organized, competent, and — fuck it, Crowley’s not going to keep lying to himself — hot. He doesn’t like the idea of him getting involved in this mess. “It’s going to be a gathering of human smuggling scum, all of them into whips and chains and bondage and shit. You really think one of them will turn out to be this mysterious third network?”

Fell presses his lips together. “No,” he admits. “I do not actually expect the third network to be present. I do, however, think that someone who knows them will be there. It is my hope that by infiltrating their world we will be able to secure an introduction.”

“That’s thin,” Crowley warns. “Real thin. How the hell did you figure all this out? Douglas, yeah, we had Edith’s body, and that led back to the facts of the case. How come you know the third network is involved, though? Why do you think these international assholes get together to strangle people on their off hours?”

Fell offers him a thin smile. “Fortuitous coincidence.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Someone in Interpol happened to recognize a stakeholder during their personal hours,” Gabriel says meanly. He’s smiling like a shark. “They engaged the person in conversation, dangled a few hints — not to mention a good amount of alcohol — and got just enough for us to work with. From there we made the link back to the main players.”

Crowley looks over at Fell. He hasn’t changed his expression, but he’s holding himself very still. “It was you, wasn’t it?” Crowley asks. He regrets the words the moment they’re out of his mouth. He hates giving Gabriel the satisfaction, but for some reason he finds he needs to know. “You’re the one who recognized them, weren’t you?”

Fell meets his eyes. After a moment, he tips his chin up and nods. It’s a very controlled motion. “Yes. I made the connection and followed it up with my team. By that point we’d discovered a particular internet fingerprint. We were able to find traces of that fingerprint in the trafficking cases arranged by the third network, and also in the methods used to organize these clandestine gatherings. We still have no idea who the third network is, of course, but they obviously have an interest in BDSM. All of those they deal with most frequently do as well. We hope that if we can infiltrate their world, we can eventually identify them and then bring them to justice.” 

Crowley looks back down at the case files. “And you figure your way in is Douglas?”

Fell nods. “I do.”

Crowley runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t like it. What makes you think infiltrating is even possible? What if someone knows what he looks like?”

Fell shrugs. “There’s no way to be certain, of course. We do know this the first time he’s been invited to one of these gatherings, though. All contact between smuggling operators is done on-line, electronic and untraceable. No photos are shared. This is the opportune time to impersonate him.”

Crowley shakes his head. “It’s risky.”

Fell nods seriously. “It is.”

Crowley presses his lips together. “But you think it’s worth it?”

Fell nods. “I do.”

Crowley sighs. “Fine.” He looks up and meets Fell’s eyes. “Then I’m going with you.”

There’s a shocked moment of silence. Beeze, who Crowley had honestly forgotten was there, speaks first. “Like Hell you are.”

Crowley turns to face his boss. “Beeze,” he says, “I know Douglas’s record like the back of my hand. I’ve been chasing him for months. I know what school he went to, who his best friend is, what phone number he uses. I know details about him that no one could get from just reading my case files.” He looks over at Fell. “Not even you.”

Fell’s gaze is hard. “You can’t take Douglas’s place. You might know him but you don’t know the culture. You also don’t have much undercover experience.”

Jesus, did this guy memorize his entire record? “No, I don’t and I’m not the guy to take point on this, but you need me there. If Douglas is new to this third network then they’re going to be quizzing him. You’ll have a better chance of making it through that if I’m there with you.”

Fell shakes his head. “There’s no one for you to be. We have Douglas only by happenstance. There isn’t another part you can play.”

Crowley shrugs. “Sure there is. I can be your plus one.”

Fell starts. “My what?”

“Oh, come on,” Crowley wheedles. “No one shows up to a party alone. These guys are into bondage, right? Well, who are they going to practice on? I bet you a week’s salary everyone walks into that party with a submissive on their arm.”

Gabriel is grinning. “And that will be you?”

Crowley shrugs, cocking a hip so it rests on the desk. He knows what he looks like. “Seems the easiest way in.”

Gabriel smirks. “You’re absolutely right.” He turns to Fell. “He’s absolutely right.”

Fell is scowling. “It took me how long to convince you the risk was worth the reward?”

“And you convinced me,” Gabriel says with a grin. He drops it to look at Fell more seriously. “I’d feel better if you went in there with a partner.” 

Fell presses his lips together and looks back at Crowley. He’s standing very straight, his hands clenched together in front of him. Crowley can see that his knuckles are white. “You don’t know what you’re agreeing to.”

Crowley thinks back to Edith on the slab. “I know enough.”

“You’ll be placing yourself in serious danger.”

“It’s not like I’ll be going in alone.”

“I might not be able to help you.”

“That’s the risk I’m willing to take.”

There’s a grating sound from behind him. Crowley looks back to see Beeze grinding their teeth. “D.I. Crowley,” they spit out. “A word, please?”

Crowley winces and steps towards his boss. 

Beeze jerks their head toward the corridor. “Outside.”

Crowley glances over his shoulder. Gabriel has stepped closer to Fell and is saying something too quiet for Crowley to hear. Fell is listening to him but his eyes haven’t left Crowley, they’re watching him with an unreadable expression. 

Crowley sighs and turns back to Beeze, following them out into the hall. His D.C.I. has always been a foot and a half shorter than him, but it’s never made them less intimidating. “What the absolute _ fuck  _ are you thinking?”

Crowley runs a hand through his hair. “Look, okay, I get the way this looks.”

“Really?” Beezes hisses. “Because it looks like you’re jumping off a cliff without a parachute. It looks like you’re volunteering for undercover — likely _ deep  _ undercover — with a man you hardly know. We have only their word on any of this and Fell has already admitted he has,” Beeze grimaces, “unusual interests of his own. What makes you think that any of this is a good idea?”

Crowley doesn’t say that his gut is telling him this is the right thing to do, because he knows Beeze hates it when he talks about his gut. He tries to frame his argument in terms of cold, hard logic instead, with a side-order of looking good for the Met. “Beeze, listen, we’ve got Douglas. No matter what, we’re going to arrest him, and that’s a good thing. We’re getting a scumbag — a trafficker and a murderer — off the street, and we’re going to put him away for a long time.”

“Exactly,” Beeze growls. “We should keep our noses clean while we can.”

Crowley winces. “Okay, but listen— we never could figure out how Douglas got into the game. We know he went from forging an I.D. for Edith to laundering international victims through legitimate employment agencies. You’ve got to admit, that’s a bit of a leap. Not to mention that he took over from other operations relatively seamlessly. It doesn’t add up. It makes sense what Interpol is saying, that there’s a third party around, arranging things behind the scenes.”

Beeze looks murderous, which means Crowley’s on the right track. “That doesn’t mean you of all people need to go undercover to find them.”

“It means I have to try,” Crowley argues. “You’ve got to admit that I know Douglas like the back of my hand. The party is tomorrow night, that isn’t enough time to bring someone else in and update them on everything I know. Beeze, we’re getting Douglas off the street. That’s good for London, and good for the Met, but imagine if we were to help Interpol take down an international organization? It’d be front page news! Doesn’t Morningstar keep saying we need more positive press coverage?”

Beeze doesn’t look like they’re buying it. “We also don’t need your body found floating ass-up on the Thames. ‘Detective Inspector killed in the line of duty, should have kept his nose out of other people’s business’ is a shit headline to run with.”

Crowley can’t help but grin. “It’d be a fitting epigraph, you’ve got to admit.”

Beeze narrows their eyes. “I admit to nothing.”

“Okay, fine, but as my boss — seriously, as my D.C.I — do you think I can’t do this?”

Beeze sighs. All of a sudden, they look old. Crowley is struck by the realization that it’s been fifteen years since he met Beeze, since he turned his life around. He’d never thought Beeze had aged during any of those years until now. “Fine. As your D.C.I., I know you can do this, but as your _friend_ I want you to think again. This is serious, Crowley. I know you wanted to get justice for Edith, but y ou’ve done that. You can let this go.”

Crowley thinks of lists of people he’s seen, the sheer number of lost souls who bet everything they had on a new life, and winces at the thought of any of them having to live through what Edith had endured. “I don’t think I can. Not now that I know there’s something I can do, I have to see this through.” 

Beeze grimances. “This could turn into more than a one night activity, you might be gone for an unknown length of time. We’d be down a detective.”

“It’d give Newton a chance to get some experience,” Crowley says steadily. He manages not to sound gleeful, he knows what Beeze looks like when they’re about to give in. “I’ve only got two active case files open. One of them he can take, the other I can give to Hastur.”

“You hate Hastur,” Beeze points out.

“Which is why I’ll give him the second case,” Crowley says, rocking back onto his heels. “The arrest will be gross and sticky. I’d rather Hastur do it instead of me.”

Beeze blows out a breath. “You’re not going to change your mind about this?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Fine,” Beeze says. “I’ll go to Morningstar.” They poke a finger into Crowley’s chest. “Your only duty is to survive. Lie, steal, cheat, I don’t care — just get in, get what we need, and get out. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Crowley says smartly. 

Beeze crosses their arms over their chest. “And don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t,” Crowley promises. “I’ve got a good feeling about this, you’ll see.”

Beeze scowls. “You and your _ feelings,” _ they snarl. “You’re worse than Anathema. Never figured out why you two stopped dating.”

“We’re too much alike,” Crowley admits. The forensics expert was still a friend, one of the few ex’s he’d stayed close to. “You know me, I need someone that’ll keep me on my toes.”

“Like Fell?” Beeze asks, raising an eyebrow.

Crowley winces. He’d hoped his attraction hadn’t been obvious.

Beeze rolls their eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I only caught it because I’ve known you too damn long.”

“Best years of my life,” Crowley says, too honestly. He clears his throat and steps back, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “Not that there’s much to compare them to. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back before you know it.”

There’s a smile hiding the corner of Beeze’s mouth. “Probably,” they agree. “Now let’s get this show on the road.”

  
  


*

  
  


Things shift into high gear after that. Crowley goes back to the conference room to tell Gabriel and Fell that he has permission from his D.C.I. to go undercover. Fell still doesn’t look happy about it but Gabriel grins and congratulates him on what he’s ‘sure will be an illuminating experience.’ 

_ Prick _ .

Crowley would like to stay and think of something really cutting to say back to him, but can’t because he has to arrange the arrest of Luke Douglas. He was planning on making it an elaborate affair, really catch him with his pants down — though hopefully not literally — and parade him through the streets to a police car waiting across the block. He wanted any enterprising up-and-comers to learn what happens when they try and traffic people through Crowley’s city.

He can’t do any of that now. Still, it’s satisfying to take Douglas down quietly in the stairway of the apartment building he owns, a building that’s a type of prison in and of itself. Douglas stashes his victims here until he can launder them, scaring them into silence with the threat of shipping them back home. Crowley thinks there’s poetic justice in slapping the cuffs on him here. 

“This is for Edith,” he hisses as he hauls Douglas away. Instead of parading him through the streets, he has to take him through the underground parking lot, but he still gets to throw him into the backseat of the car.

Newt climbs into the passenger side. “Uh, that’s, well, yeah, we’ll, I mean — ” he clears his throat “ — we’ll take him back to lock up now, right, Detective Inspector?”

Crowley sighs. “Yes, Newt.” He’s not going to lie to himself, going undercover is a great way to avoid his junior partner for a couple of days. Maybe he’ll get lucky and this assignment will balloon into a couple of weeks. “Keep the lights off, though. We don’t want anyone getting suspicious.”

He orders Newt to do the paperwork when they’re back at the precinct. Admittedly, he always does that, but this time Crowley’s reasons are honest. He legitimately needs every hour he can get to question Douglas before tomorrow. It’s already a quarter to five. In just over twenty four hours, Fell will be impersonating this scumbag in front of a crowd of even richer scumbags. He’ll need every nugget of information Crowley can get.

Fell, of course, knows that too, so Crowley realizes he shouldn’t be surprised when he steps into the observation boothe and finds Fell waiting for him. He snorts. “I should’ve figured you’d be here.”

Fell raises an eyebrow and clasps his hands behind his back. Crowley can’t help but be drawn to the careful way he moves. It’s just as obvious here as it was in the conference room. Fell’s every motion is controlled, every step seems thought through, as though it’s a complicated dance he has planned out in his head. No, not a dance — a chess game. Fell moves as though he’s six steps ahead of everyone else but is still watching for any change of strategy. It’s a sharp contrast to Crowley’s own uncoordinated, gut-instinct saunter. “There are several questions I would like answers to.”

Crowley nods towards the one-way glass. Douglas is cuffed to a chair in the middle of the interrogation room. “You gonna come in with me?”

Fell shakes his head. “Not just yet, I think. Let’s see what you get first.”

Crowley tries not to feel like this is a test and fails. “Fine, then.” He chooses to smirk and swagger away from Fell, opening the door of the observation deck and stepping into the interrogation room itself. He lets the door swing shut behind him. 

“Luke Douglas,” Crowley begins. He’s carrying his file folder in his hands. He keeps his gaze on it until he drops into the chair across from Douglas, throwing the folder on the small table between them. “I’ve been after you for a while, you know.”

Douglas sneers. “Yes, you said. Since that ridiculous girl died.” His face twists in a smirk. “What was her name again? Agnes? Elizabeth?”

Crowley can hear his own pulse accelerate to a roar inside his ears. Fell is just on the other side of the glass, though. With an act of will, Crowley holds his temper in check. “Edith,” he enunciates carefully. “Edith Lively.” He flips open the folder and chooses to smile. “Though you changed it to Rebecca, if I’m remembering right. Rebecca something stupid. Rocca? Ribba?”

Douglas’s expression tightens. “Alliterative names are easier for people to remember.”

“Well, names don’t count for shit if your forging process gets made. Is that why you went into human smuggling, Douglas? Someone finally tell you how to do a better job?”

Douglas snarls. “My methods were impeccable.” He stops himself and leans back. “Human smuggling does make a shit ton more money, though. Do you know what Edith paid me to change her name? I make six times that a day now.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Wow, this is my easiest interrogation ever. You’re awfully talkative for a man without his lawyer present.” He puts the folder down and takes out a lined piece of paper. “Please, feel free to keep sharing information.”

Douglas smirks. “I know how the game works, detective. You need me for something. You wouldn’t have taken me so quiet if you didn’t want to keep the fact that I was arrested on the down-low.”

“‘On the down-low,’” Crowley mocks. He snorts. “Yeah, right. We don’t need you for shit. We got evidence to put you and all of your associates away. You know how easy it was to find you once we made the connection with Edith? We’ll fold your entire operation like a cheap house of cards.”

“Oh, please,” Douglas sneers. “Smuggling’s an international operation. You got me, so what? There are bigger fish in the sea.”

Crowley shrugs and stands up. “Not for me. I’m Met Police, Douglas. Arresting you is going to make my career. I’m going to get a commendation for this, maybe a raise. Who knows? It’s a good day, anyways.” He picks up the folder and tucks it under his arm. “I’ll send my partner in soon to get the rest of your information. He’s new, but he could use some spit and polish, so feel free to take your time with him.” He steps towards the door.

“No, wait!” Douglas says. There’s a catch to his voice now. “I know things. Important things! You can’t just put me in lock up.”

Crowley resists the urge to grin. Instead he schools his face into a frown and turns back to Douglas. “Why not? I got you, I arrested you, my day is done. I can call your lawyer for you, if you want.” 

“No, please,” Douglas says. He sounds desperate now. “They’ll kill me.”

Crowley grins with all his teeth. “Like you killed Edith?”

“That was an accident!”

“She’s still dead.”

“What do you care?”

Crowley forces himself to shrug again and turns towards the door. “Good point.”

“Wait, wait!” Douglas shouts. He’s really sweating now. “Listen. They told me for sure not to get caught. They said I’d make good money, that I’d live like a king, but the moment I found myself in police custody they’d have me killed. You’ve already fucked me, detective. You’ve got to protect me now.”

Crowley sneers. “I don’t have to do shit.” He glances down at the folder in hand and pretends to have to think about it. “Ugh, but fine. Tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know much,” Douglas starts, and Crowley rolls his eyes and turns back to the door. “No, wait!” When Crowley turns around again he goes on. “I mean, I don’t know who they are. We got introduced online. They told me they’d heard of my forging credentials, wanted to know if I’d be interested in scaling up my operation. When I started to ask questions, they asked a few back. That’s when they told me how much money I’d make. They knew I owned that apartment building and they told me how to get set up with an employment agency. They said they could help me launder people through.”

“Quite a jump from forging papers to human trafficking, Douglas.”

Douglas licks his lips. “Yeah, well. They told me there’d be side benefits.”

Crowley scowls. “Let me guess, people like Edith?”

Douglas’s eyes dart to the corners. “They knew I had some proclivities, yeah. Edith was into it, and she couldn’t say no— I could tell the police what her old name was. I was getting bored of her, though, even before I— yeah. These people. There’s so many of them. There’s always one or two who are pretty enough and submissive enough to serve. Doesn’t hurt when you don’t care about gender, either. I get ‘em for as long as I want ‘em and then they go back into the pot. They disappear and I get someone new. It was a win-win for me.”

“Until you got caught,” Crowley points out. “Now apparently they’re going to kill you for it.”

Douglas laughs dryly. “Yeah. Thought I’d have a few years left, myself.”

Crowley shakes his head. “You haven’t told me anything, Douglas. I already knew you were a sick fuck. I still don’t get why this means I should keep you out of lock-up.”

“Yeah, but don’t you get it?” Douglas insists. “They _ know  _ things. Things I don’t know how they figured out. What I like, how I like it. It’s weird.”

“Lots of things are weird,” Crowley states blandly. “That doesn’t help me find them.”

Douglas looks nervous now. “They told me other stuff.”

“What kind of other stuff?”

Douglas licks his lips. He glances once to the window, and then once to the door. Finally he slumps down in his chair. “You’re gonna need a tape recorder.”

Crowley pulls one from his coat pocket. “I got one,” he says. He hits record. “Start talking.” 


	2. Chapter Two

  
  


It takes until midnight to wrap everything up. 

Douglas talks for hours. Gabriel requests Interpol receive a copy of the recording and suggests Crowley keep this entire operation on paper. “Nothing in the computer,” he says. “Douglas is right, we don’t know how the third network gets their information.”

It’s a shit ton of work, and it’s made worse by the fact that Crowley can’t put it off until tomorrow. He’s going to need the entire day to get ready for his op. He pushes through until he’s stumbling exhausted and then subpoenas a rookie into driving him home. He drops his keys twice trying to unlock the door of his flat and almost brains himself on the doorknob the second time he stands up. Cursing himself for being an idiot, he gets the door open. He manages to kick off his shoes and shuck his clothes before falling headfirst into bed. Then he rolls over with a curse and peels his sunglasses off his face. Finally — blessedly — he can close his eyes. Between one breath and the next, he’s asleep.

He wakes an indeterminable amount of time later. He isn’t sure why he’s awake. Crowley just comes to on his feet with a bottle of pepper spray in his hand, his head cocked to one side to listen for whatever it was that had gotten him out of bed. The sun is shining into his windows in a way he never sees except on weekends, and hardly even then. Crowley spends most of his weekends at the precinct. A moment later he hears it. A gentle _ tap-tap-tap  _ at his door.

Crowley frowns and takes a step away from his bed, realizes that he’s naked, debates with himself for a second, and finally grabs a pair of pajama pants and slings them on. Keeping hold of his pepper spray, he creeps towards the door. A glance through the keyhole makes him groan.

“Really?” Crowley whines and throws the door open. “Already? I thought I’d get another hour of sleep at least.”

Aziraphale Fell arches an eyebrow before looking Crowley up and down. “You say that as if you actually know what time it is. Aren’t your feet cold without socks?”

Crowley remembers that he’s practically naked and flushes, then remembers that, as per his own insistence, Fell is probably going to be seeing a lot more of him than this. He groans and takes a step back from the door. “You might as well come in. Of course I know what time it is. It’s too-early-for-this-shit o’clock.”

Fell smiles. It’s a small expression but more than Crowley got yesterday. He steps through the doorway into Crowley’s flat. “Definitely more sassy in the morning, then.”

“I’m a brat any time of the day,” Crowley grumbles, eyeing Fell as he steps inside. He’s wearing another cream-coloured suit today, this one with a pale blue undershirt, and his hair is somehow even fluffier in the morning light. He looks like an angel appearing on his doorstep, an angel coming to drag him off to an undercover BDSM op. Right. Crowley huffs to himself and shakes his head, turning towards his thumbprint-sized kitchen. “Coffee?”

There’s an odd silence, and then, “Tea, if you have it.”

Crowley looks over his shoulder. “‘Course I do and what was that? Did I say something weird?”

Fell clears his throat. “It’s just that the term ‘brat’ has a particular connotation within the BDSM community.”

Crowley makes a face. “Did I use it wrong?” He pours a handful of beans into the grinder.

“No, I don’t believe you did,” Fell murmurs, quietly enough that Crowley can ignore it. He chooses to do so because the grinder is loud and he really could have used another hour of sleep. 

Once the coffee is dripping Crowley starts digging through his cabinets. “I’ve got earl grey or english breakfast. Or, er,” he squints at the box in his hand. “Green something herbal what.” He shakes his head. “Anathema must have left this here.”

“The forensics expert?” Fell asks. He hasn’t moved from the doorway, except to cross his hands behind his back. “And earl grey, please. With a dash of lemon, if you have it.”

Crowley makes a face. “You might choose differently once you’ve seen the lemon. And yeah, that Anathema.” He turns to grin at Fell. “I’d ask how you knew her name, but how many ‘Anathema’s’ can there be? Maybe as many as there are ‘Aziraphale’s,’ eh?”

“Indeed,” Fell says mildly. “No lemon, then. Anthony is, however, a very common name. What does the J stand for?”

Crowley shrugs. “Just a J, really.” He flicks the kettle on. “Take off your shoes and make yourself at home. I’ll just be a moment.”

Fell nods and toes off his loafers — they look comfortable but expensive, worn in, rather like the beige suit Fell is wearing — and disappears from view. Crowley can hear him walking across the carpet, pausing before his plants. Crowley rubs a hand over his face. He has excellent hearing, thankfully, since his eyesight is shit, so Crowley knows that Fell doesn’t move while he fixes the coffee and pours the tea. 

Sure enough, Fell is still standing with his hands behind his back when Crowley steps out from the kitchen. “I didn’t know what you wanted in it and I don’t have any cream, so it’s milk or sugar if you choose.” He puts the plate with accoutrements down on the coffee table. He doesn’t own a tray. “I’ve already doctored mine, so go ahead.”

“Just the tea is fine,” Fell says. “If I had wanted milk or sugar, I would have said. That is one thing you should know about me, Detective Inspector Crowley. I am very precise.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I got that, thanks.” He hands Fell his tea. Their hands brush and Crowley feels the tingle of it run up his arm. He starts and glances at Fell, only to find the bastard already looking at him. Crowley realizes he’d planned the touch to judge its effect and can’t help but grin as he falls back onto the sofa. “I can see why Gabriel hates you.”

Fell raises an eyebrow. “Mr Choir and I have known each other a long time.”

“Yeah, and he threw you to the wolves yesterday,” Crowley points out, taking a sip of his coffee. “Kind of a dick move.”

Fell shrugs. “That’s Gabriel.” He takes a seat across from Crowley in the only other chair Crowley has. It’s a remarkably cozy living room, another one of Anathema’s interventions, because before they had started dating Crowley had had a plastic fold-out left over from his uni days and a wooden table someone else had been trying to throw away. He’d always figured that when he had enough money to furnish his own flat he’d go with a really post-modern stylistic arrangement, except Anathema had laughed at him when he’d told her so. In those days, he’d have done a lot more than buy a comfy sofa to hear her laugh. Probably still would, if he’s being honest.

“What were you thinking of just now?” Fell asks. Crowley starts and looks up. Fell has put his tea down and is leaning forward, balancing his knees on his elbows and his chin on his hands. “You were very far away a second ago, and you were smiling.”

Crowley chuckles nervously and looks down at his mug. He’s not used to someone else being as good at reading people as he is. “Just a friend. She’s the reason you have a chair to sit on in here.”

Fell nods slowly. “This is Anathema, again?”

“Yeah,” Crowley admits. He takes a sip from his mug.

“You don’t have very many friends, do you, Mr Crowley?”

Crowley chokes on his coffee. “Ah, er.” He coughs. “You don’t mince words, do you?” 

Fell smirks. “I find it saves time.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley tries, but there’s still coffee in his lungs. He coughs again and hot liquid slops over the rim of his mug. It splashes onto his bare chest and Crowley curses. “Fuck, shit, that burns.” He sits up hurriedly and puts the coffee down, then dabs at his chest with his other hand.

Fell looks amused. “Go ahead,” he says, waving to the kitchen. “Don’t delay on my account.”

Crowley shoots him a glare. “Why would I when you did that on purpose?” He stalks to the kitchen and grabs a towel from the drawer. He mops up his chest. “You don’t play fair, do you Mr Fell?”

Fell shrugs. “Just ‘Fell’ is fine, at least for now. Tonight, you’ll have to call me something different.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley gripes. He slinks back into the living room. “And what is that?”

“‘Sir,’” Fell says steadily.

Crowley stops. His mouth is suddenly dry. “Right.”

Fell looks very serious. “And what about you? We should not use your given name, I think.”

“No,” Crowley agrees. He reminds his legs that walking is a thing they should be doing and crosses the few steps back to the couch. “I suppose ‘Tony’ should be fine. It’s a common enough name.”

“Mm,” Fell says. “That would be acceptable.” He leans back and folds his hands together. “Mr Crowley,” he begins. 

“Oh god, please no,” Crowley interrupts. 

Fell raises an eyebrow. “Detective Inspector? Anthony?”

“Just ‘Crowley,’ please. That’s what everyone calls me.”

Fell purses his lips. “Very well, then. Crowley.” He clears his throat. “I came here this morning to urge you to reconsider. I know you think you understand what’s going on, but I promise you, tonight will be challenging ways you can’t expect. Not only is it an undercover op that neither of us has had nearly enough time to prepare for, but we are dealing with a group of individuals who are both insular and smart. There will be no room for error.”

Crowley nods. “I know that. Seriously, I understand what’s at stake here. I know that messing up could get both of us killed. Worse than that, it could tank your investigation.”

Fell raises an eyebrow slowly. “You’ve put the consequences out of order, I believe. I would much rather tank this investigation than get either of us killed.”

Crowley shrugs. “Well, yeah, of course you’d say that.”

“No,” Fell says sternly. Crowley jerks his head up. Fell’s blue eyes have gone ice cold. “I do not repeat myself, Crowley. You heard what I said.”

Crowley swallows. 

“What did I say?” Fell demands.

“That— that you always mean what you say,” Crowley stutters. Fuck. “Look, I get that. I really do. I don’t want you to get hurt or anything.” 

“And I have serious reservations about you risking your life.”

Crowley makes a face. “Well, yeah, but I think we’ve got to catch this guy if we can.”

“And we will,” Fell assures him. His voice is not placating, it’s a simple statement of fact. “Sooner or later, this year or another, we will catch the third network, whoever they are. What we have before us is an opportunity, nothing more.”

“But you have to admit that the sooner we catch them, the sooner they’re off the streets,” Crowley points out. “There are thousands of people right now in cargo trucks, sailing across the Mediterranean or stuck on trains because this asshole is more interested in making money and getting off than they are being a decent human being.”

“You are not wrong,” Fell agrees softly. “Still, I would not trade your life for theirs.”

Crowley makes a face.

“In fact,” Fell goes on, “I insist that if we’re going to do this, you promise me right now that you will do everything you can to keep yourself safe. I don’t care if you need to break character, run for safety, or expose me as an Interpol agent. You _ will not  _ allow yourself to become collateral damage.” An extra line appears between Fell’s eyes. “Promise me this, Crowley. I will bar us both from this assignment if you cannot.” 

Crowley stares at him. “You wouldn’t — ” He cuts himself off when Fell’s expression chills. He really, _ really  _ would. “Fuck. Fuck! Fine.” He stops, presses his lips together, and nods. “I promise.”

There is no thaw in Fell’s expression. “Are you sure?”

Crowley squares his jaw. “Yes.”

“You aren’t bullshitting me?” 

Crowley bristles. “It’s time for you to learn something about me, Mr Interpol. I _ always  _ keep my promises.” He meets Fell’s stare and holds it. “Always.”

Fell holds his gaze for several long seconds. Finally he nods, glances back at his tea, and leans forward to pick it up. The moment is broken. “Very well.” He takes a sip. “I can see why you wear sunglasses at work. Your eyes are quite startling.”

“Shit,” Crowley exclaims, a hand flying to his face. “I left them in the bedroom.” He’d thought the light was brighter in here than normal. He’s assumed that was because he was usually at the precinct this time most days. 

“I suggest you leave them off,” Fell murmurs quietly. “It is an international group we are meeting tonight, but it’s not impossible that one of them knows Detective Inspector Crowley. If you always wear your glasses, going without them will change your profile distinctly. Besides, your eyes are quite lovely. You’ll be the talk of the party with a face like that.”

Crowley blushes and looks away. He’s not used to people finding his eyes lovely. Most people tell him they look weird. They’re bright yellow and vivid; he’s been asked if he has cancer more times than he can count. “I guess that’s not a bad idea.”

“Right,” Fell says briskly. “Okay, then. You will address me as ‘Sir’ and I will call you ‘Tony.’ You should know in the moment I may also use other names. ‘Pet’ and ‘boy’ are both common enough. You should not startle to hear them.”

Crowley takes a deep breath in and nods. “Right.” He rubs his palms on his pajama pants. “What exactly do you expect will happen?”

“Honestly?” Fell says, “I have no idea. The experience I have with this culture is a much more,” his lips twist, “consensual experience. I expect, based on other meetings of international illegality I have witnessed, however, that the decor will be lavish, the party goers even more so, and the conversation stilted. You are correct in assuming that most people will not be alone. There may be some people who do not arrive with a sub on their arm, however. I expect that suitable ‘entertainment’ will be available for those who do not bring a guest with them.”

Crowley makes a face. “There’s going to be scantily clad men and women walking around?”

“If they aren’t entirely naked, yes,” Fell agrees. “They will likely be made up beautifully, expect diamonds and such. We will not dress to quite that extent. Douglas is new. The information we got from him yesterday confirms that he wasn’t given much information regarding the night and his newfound wealth will likely be paltry compared to the experienced players. I will wear a suit, custom tailored but not especially ostentatious. You can wear something skin-tight but understated.” He raises an eyebrow in Crowley’s direction. “I trust you have something of that ilk?”

Crowley wonders when the last time he heard someone use the word ‘ilk’ before. He shakes his head and thinks over his closet instead. “Probably. It’s been a while since I’ve been clubbing but I’ve got black leather pants that take ten minutes to get on.”

Fell smiles. “They’re tight?”

Crowley grins. “Extremely tight.”

“Good,” Fell says. “I should warn you, however, that you should not wear anything you have a great attachment to. There is a good chance that your clothing will be stained or ruined by the end of the night.”

Crowley absolutely does not let his brain go to the Bad Place. He might be attracted to Fell but there are limits. “That’s fine, like I said I haven’t worn them in years.”

“And for a shirt?”

Crowley thinks. “I could do a black undershirt with a see-through top?”

Fell shakes his head. “Simple black would be better.” 

“Short sleeved?”

“Either way.”

Crowley nods. “Okay, I’ve got a cotton-polyester blend that looks like it was sprayed onto me. It’s long sleeved and goes just past my hips. I used to tuck it into my jeans.”

Fell looks satisfied. “Perfect. I also have a belt that I think will suit you. It will be the only ostentatious thing for you to wear, except for the collar, of course.”

Crowley blinks twice. “Right. The collar. Absolutely. Of course.”

Aziraphale sighs. “My dear, do you have any idea what you’ve signed onto?”

“Sure,” Crowley says with an awkward shrug. “BDSM, right? Submissives and dominants?”

“Which means?” Fell asks. His eyes are locked onto Crowley’s and they are very, very blue.

“Uh,” Crowley fumbles. “It’s about sex, right? One person is the dominant, they tell the other person what to do. They hit them sometimes, if they’re into that, or tie them up or whatever. Then they tell the submissive if they’re allowed to come, or something.” He shrugs. “The dominant gets off and that’s all there is to it.”

Fell looks physically pained. “There is so much wrong with that statement.” He looks down at his mug. “I may need something stronger than tea.”

Crowley makes a face. “I had an ex-boyfriend who was into it. We didn’t do too much.”

Fell sighs. “No, I do not expect so. Tell me, were you the submissive or the dominant in that, no doubt painful, experiment?”

  
Crowley doesn’t argue with the conclusion. It was fairly unsatisfying all around. “The dominant.”

“Of course you were,” Fell says regretfully, “when you are very clearly a submissive.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I believe we’ll need to start from the top.”

Crowley starts. “Hey, I’m a what now?”

Fell sighs. 

It takes over an hour. Fell does his best to explain. What Crowley takes away at the end of it is that the whole BDSM thing is about more than just sex. Fell describes it as a give-and-take relationship, something that can last the length of a single scene or be a constant part of a couple’s life. 

“Like most relationships, it’s most often one-to-one,” Fell explains. “With one submissive and one dominant, though, as in everything, more parties can be involved if all decide. It is, when done properly, a mutually satisfying relationship. The submissive gives themselves — yes, their body, but also their trust — to the dominant, secure in the knowledge that the dominant will fulfill their needs. Sometimes those needs are sexual, oftentimes they are not. The submissive’s desires form the core of every encounter.”

Crowley can’t help but make a face at that. “But isn’t the dominant in charge?”

“Yes,” Fell says patiently, “but when you were with your boyfriend, and you were experimenting, you did things to him that you thought he would enjoy, right?”

“Yeah,” Crowley admits, “of course. That didn’t make it good for either of us, though.”

“No, I suspect not,” Fell says dryly. “To be mutually beneficial, of course both party's proclivities must come into effect. A submissive who desires to be cared for, and who has a particular fetish for feet, would need to listen to a dominant if they told them feet were particularly disgusting to them. This is why time and communication are so essential. When beginning a new dominant-submissive relationship, clear understandings must be reached. The submissive should be honest about what they like, what they don’t like, what they are unsure about, and — most importantly — what they are hoping to take away from the encounter. The dominant should likewise state their likes and dislikes. Their limits, if you like. That way a negative encounter can be avoided.”

Crowley scratches his head. “Sounds like a regular hookup, then.”

“Yes, exactly,” Fell says, “though one with the potential for bodily injury in addition to emotional trauma.”

“Right,” Crowley says, thinking of Edith again.

“Which is why,” Fell says, sounding bitter now, “this group’s perversion is so disgusting. To treat humans as things, not because they want to be but because you’ve made them to be, is wrong. It’s more than, it’s sacrilegious. BDSM is about trust. These fools have destroyed the base of the tower before they’ve even begun to build.”

He looks properly furious now. Crowley bites his lip at the hard light in his eyes and decides to go with his gut. Sliding forward, he reaches out and places a hand on the end of Fell’s knee. “Hey,” he says quietly. “It’s okay. They aren’t doing BDSM, you know. They’re just abusive assholes who like to play dress up. That’s all it is.”

Fell meets his eyes. Slowly, he relaxes. “Yes, of course,” he says. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. This is a passionate subject for me.” He smiles faintly. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed.”

Crowley chuckles. “Yeah, I got that.” He sits back and looks down at his now-cold coffee. “In the spirit of honesty, then, should we, uh, talk about our likes and dislikes?”

Fell gifts him with a smile. It’s small but very real. “Yes, we probably should. The terrible thing is that I don’t know what kind of freedom we will have when we get there. I expect most submissives will be acting as arm candy at first, but eventually the real party will begin. There will most likely be quite the slew of terrible, perverted practices.” He looks upset again. “I’m not sure how to spare you that, Detective.”

“It’s ‘Crowley,’” Crowley reminds him gently, “and you’ll remember that I volunteered. Here, I’ll go first.” He clears his throat. “I like — ” He pauses. “Uh, I don’t actually know what I like. Having sex?”

Fell huffs a laugh. “Oh, dear,” he says. “You mean coming, I presume?”

Crowley blushes. “Right. That.”

“Very good,” Fell says. His voice has gone warm. “And what else do you like, Crowley?”

“Um,” Crowley says. He wracks his brain. “I mean, I like blow jobs — uh, oral sex — both giving and recieving. And I enjoy penetrative sex.” His face is beet red, he knows. Nothing he can do about it now. “I’m clean, by the way, if things go that way. Got checked out recently, no germs here.”

Fell looks sad. “I am as well but it will not come to that. We’ll find another way. That would feel too much like rape.”

Crowley takes a deep breath. “If it’s needed — ”

“No,” Fell interrupts. His voice is sturdy again, like bedrock. “It won’t be, and besides, I wouldn’t be able to.” 

Crowley frowns. “Wouldn’t be able to what?”

“Penetrate you,” Fell says simply. “I couldn’t stay hard if you were unwilling.”

“Oh,” Crowley says. He looks over at Fell. “Okay. Um. No penetrative sex, then. Uh, more things that I like.” He scratches the underside of his chin. “I had a girlfriend who bit me once. That actually wasn’t too bad.”

“A ringing endorsement,” Fell says dryly. He picks his tea up. “Perhaps you should tell me what you don’t like instead.”

Crowley winces. “Yeah. Don’t like, well.” It doesn’t take as long to think about this. “I’ve never liked feet, to be honest. Don’t find them disgusting or anything, but sucking toes is not something I’ve ever found attractive.”

Fell hums. “Good, that’s useful information. Anything else?”

Crowley taps his fingers on his mug. “Um, I’m crap at staying still?” He laughs. “I’m pretty sure you’ve figured that out by now.”

“Indeed,” Fell says. His eyes are twinkling. “Does being restrained upset you, then?”

Crowley shrugs. “No, I don’t think so, I’m just not likely to be able to listen if you tell me not to move.”

“Hm,” Fell hums. “What about obeying orders? Does that turn you on?”

“Uh,” Crowley says. He has to think. “I don’t know? I don’t think so, particularly.”

“What about if you knew that doing what I said would make me very happy?” Fell asks. His voice has gone warm and thick, like liquid honey. There’s also something suddenly hypnotic about his eyes. “If you knew being good for me would bring me joy. Could you listen to my commands?”

Crowley can feel his heart pounding. There’s a rushing in his ears. Is he hard? Oh fuck, he’s hard. “That would be — I guess — that would be good.”

“Even if I asked you to keep still?”

“Ah,” Crowley has to swallow. “Well, I’d try. If you asked me.”

Fell sits back. The spell is broken. “I see,” he says. He takes a sip of his tea. “Anything else?”

Crap, Crowley’s brain has gone to pieces. “Uh, ngk. I don’t know? I don’t think so, no.” He clears his throat. “What. Uh. What about you? What do you like?”

“I do like being listened to,” Fell admits, “as I presume you’ve guessed.” He smiles when Crowley chuckles. “I also enjoy ropes and bondage. Mostly because it forces the other person to listen to me and remain still, even when against their natural impulses.” He raises an eyebrow at Crowley. “Especially then, to be honest.” He blushes slightly and puts his tea down. “Only when I know they are okay with that, of course. Open and honest communication, like I said.”

“Right, yeah,” Crowley assures him. His mouth has gone dry. He would find it incredibly hard not to move, he knows. On impulse, he lets himself imagine it, being tied up by Fell. He thinks of his arms bound above his head and Fell watching him with those intense blue eyes, wanting him to listen but knowing he will struggle. He has to swallow. “Yeah, I think that would be — ” he coughs “ — yeah, I think I’d be okay with that.”

“Okay,” Fell says carefully. He gives them both a moment before picking up his tea. “How do you feel about physical play? Paddles and such. Things that will hurt and leave bruises?”

Crowley winces. “I really don’t know. I don’t have any experience with that.” He cock, which was still hard, softens at the thought of being hurt, though. “I don’t think I like the idea of pain.”

Fell nods. “What about very specific flicks of a lash? Nothing so brutal as a paddle or a belt, but something very fine, that causes a quick flare of sensation? Used more to draw attention to a specific part of the body then to really hurt. It can focus the mind.”

“Oh,” Crowley says. He thinks about it. “Maybe? That, um, doesn’t sound too bad.”

“I do like lashes,” Fell admits, “and I’m very skilled with them. I like paddles and belts as well, but only if my partner is enjoying them. I have no problem giving them up.” He sits back a bit. “What I do not like is anything involving bodily fluids that are not spit or cum. Urine and feces are not for me.”

Crowley is quick to agree. “I hadn’t thought of that, but no, me neither.”

Fell nods. “I do, I confess, enjoy knife play. Very much, if I’m being honest. It is a particularly visceral experience, not to be attempted before a strong trust is formed. I would never actually cut someone. I do not enjoy the sight of blood.”

Crowley’s eyes have gone crossed at the idea of Fell sliding a knife over his skin. Oh god. He’d be so perfectly in control. The blade would be flat, and sort of cold, and Crowley would gasp, shocked, and Fell would murmur to him, and it would be so hot because Crowley would be terrified but not actually afraid…

“My— Crowley?” Fell asks. He’s the one leaning forward now, touching his thigh. “Are you okay?”

Crowley gasps for air. “Yes,” he chokes. He blinks rapidly and stares at Fell. Oh god, is he sitting closer than he was before? He’s sitting closer than he was before. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Fell is watching him carefully. His eyes remain steady but Crowley knows with blinding insight that the fact that he’s hard has not gone unnoticed. “Do you… need a minute?”

“No!” Crowley squeaks. Oh fuck, his face has red. So red. He could fry an egg. “I’ll just. More tea?” He grabs Fell’s mug and runs.

Fuck fuck _ fuck.  _ Crowley braces his hands on the counter and heaves. So. Okay. He’s slightly more kinky than he’d realized. That’s fine. And he’s more attracted to Fell than he’d consciously understood. That’s fine, too. And they’re going undercover together in a couple of hours. That’s— 

Crowley breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to settle his rapid pulse. That’s fine. He can handle this. He’s okay.

There’s a shift from the living room, the sound of someone standing up. Crowley freezes, heart in his throat. A moment later, there’s another sound. This time of someone sitting down.

Crowley exhales. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed.

He forces himself to make tea. Refills his coffee while he’s at it. By the time he emerges from the kitchen, he’s at least gotten his face under control. “Sorry about that,” he says as he hands Fell his mug. He finds he can’t quite meet the man’s eyes.

“Not to worry, Dete— Crowley,” Fell murmurs. He takes his mug carefully. 

Crowley decides to breeze right past the awkwardness. “What time do we have to be there?” 

“Around six o’clock,” Fell says. “I’ll pick you up here in a nondescript car. We’ll drive to Douglas’s building through the back entrance, make our way to the front of the building, and wait. A limo will pick us up there.” He makes a face. “The party will be on the south-side dock of the London Thames. It’s not Douglas’s territory. I expect ten to twenty people, likely thirteen or so. Plus their submissives, of course.”

“Right,” Crowley says. “Of course. Will we be wearing earpieces?”

Fell’s expression falls. “No. I’m sorry, but it isn’t safe. We’d do best to treat this as deep, deep cover. People will be — very close — to us. You will likely be touched and quite fawned over. I’ll do what I can to keep wandering hands away from you, I’ll play Douglas as the jealous sort, but there’s really no way to use an earpiece in a way that keeps us safe.”

Crowley frowns. “Will we have any communication with the team here, then?”

Fell nods. “I’ll place a button in your belt so they can overhear your conversations. I’ll also be carrying a newly purchased cell phone, completely clean and untraceable. I’ve memorized your D.C.I’s number and Gabriel has a burner phone he’ll be using for the op.”

“But you and I, the two of us, will have no way to communicate? What if we get separated?”

“We won’t be,” Fell promises, “and no, we will have no electronic method of communication. We should agree on several basics, however.”

Crowley eyes him. “Like what?”

Fell sighs. “A simple yes or no, at least. I’d like more but we’ll have to assume we’ll be monitored constantly while we’re there.”

“Right,” Crowley says. “Okay, should we do the tap system, then? Once for yes and twice for no?”

Fell nods slowly. “That sounds good. Blinking would work as well.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says. He rubs his palms on his pajama pants. The op feels very real all of a sudden. “How can you guarantee we won’t be separated?”

“Well,” Fell murmurs, “that’s where the leash comes in.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter Three

  
  
  


“I hate this thing,” Crowley hisses, for what is probably the twenty-seventh time. 

“I know,” Fell murmurs. He pats Crowley’s leg with the hand that’s not holding the leash. The _leash_ is stretched across Fell’s lap. It’s black leather with red stitching, barely thicker than Crowley’s thumb, and so soft Crowley understands where the phrase ‘like butter’ comes from. If it were a jacket or a pair of pants or literally anything else he’d be halfway in love with it. As it is, he can’t believe it’s attached to his throat. 

A collar, fine. A collar he can wear. It’s little more than a choker, right? Crowley’s had a few in his time, he knows what clubbing is, he owns a pair of high heels, too.

But a _leash!_ A leash like he’s a dog, a thing to be called and kept at heel. It makes his teeth grind and his neck hurt. He hates the idea of being kept on a leash.

But Fell had insisted. “You need this, Crowley. It will reinforce the idea of me being jealous and ensure that we stay close. It will be much more difficult for someone to get you away from me if you’re wearing it.” His gaze had darkened. “And believe me, Detective, you do not want them to get you away from me.”

Crowley did believe him. He also knew that this entire thing was his own fault. He could have let the case go, sent Fell undercover alone, finished his half of the paperwork and washed his hands of the whole thing. He could have had the weekend off. But then what? He’d have been worried sick and useless, and if anything had happened to Fell — 

No. He was here for a reason. Fell needed his inside knowledge. He’d left Crowley’s place around two, saying he had a few things to organize before they set out, and had promised to be back before six. Crowley had used the time to water his plants, remind Anathema she had a key, take a shower, and choke down some calories. Then he’d cursed himself one last time for wanting to see this through and had gone to his bedroom to change.

He’d found the black leather pants he remembered in his closet and discovered they looked just as good on him as he recalled. The shirt, he’d decided, was okay— simple, black, and tight, like he’d promised Fell. He’d asked the other man before he left if he should put on makeup, and Fell had hummed and looked Crowley over and suggested only a little something around the eyes.

Crowley had done as he’d suggested, using just a dab of foundation to even out his skin and then picking up his kohl. He’d done the best he could before applying a clear mascara he was fond of, something that would highlight his lashes without making his face look too feminine. He had a different mascara for that.

But it had made him uncomfortable to do up his eyes knowing everyone would actually see them. He’d taken Fell’s suggestion and hadn’t put his sunglasses back on. He felt naked without them. He had a separate pair he usually used for clubbing, only slightly tinted, designed to take some of the vividness away from his eyes. He’d actually reached for them twice before stopping each time, remembering what Fell had said. 

Fell was the undercover expert, Crowley had reminded himself, and if he said the lack of sunglasses would change his profile, Crowley had to believe him. And he did. He’d never quite gotten over being told his eyes looked weird, though, instead of attractive. Still, Fell had certainly seemed appreciative when he’d showed back up at Crowley’s door. He’d stared quite candidly when Crowley had ushered him into the flat. “My dear,” he’d even murmured, his gaze traveling up, taking in Crowley’s Doc Martens, his pants, shirt, make-up, carefully done hair, and then back down to his eyes. His expression had warmed. “You look simply perfect.”

Crowley had shifted his feet. “Uh, thanks,” he’d muttered. His eyes had skittered off Fell. “You look, too. Ngk. I mean, you look good. S—sir.” 

Just remembering, Crowley flushes. He’d felt tongue-tied and foolish, but Fell had been a vision in his tailored charcoal suit — a naughty dark secret, soft but stern, beautiful and dangerous. Crowley had only seen him in light colours before and the contrast had been jarring. Enough that it’d taken him a moment to realize that Fell had been holding something out for him. Finally the light had glinted off the gems and Crowley had stared.

“Yes,” Fell had said. “This is for you.” He’d handed him the belt. Crowley had taken it with shaking hands. He’d been struck by how beautiful it was. Black and silver, tooled to look like a snake, with two rubies for eyes and tiny diamonds on its snout. Crowley had wrapped it around his hips and marveled at how perfectly it had fit. He’d never wanted to take it off.

“There’s an audio device inside, as promised,” Fell had said. He’d held up a phone. “Right, DCI Beelzebub?”

_“Right.”_ Beelze’s disgruntled voice came, sounding tinny over the speaker. _“So shut up and behave, Crowley. We’re all listening.”_

Crowley had swallowed. “Oh great,” he’d said nervously, “just what I always wanted. An audience.”

Fell had looked speculative at that, but had spoken into the phone. “I’m going to hang up now and leave this phone here so it can’t be traced. You all know my alternate number. Do not call unless it is an emergency.”

_“Don’t do anything stupid and we won’t,”_ Beeze had grumbled. _“Either of you.”_

Fell’s lips had quirked. “I think it’s a bit late for that, but thank you.” He’d hung up. “And now,” he’d said, turning his full gaze on Crowley, “it’s time for this.” 

That was when he’d pulled out the collar. Crowley had swallowed again. It was also beautiful, black leather with red tulle, a perfect match to Fell’s tie. But there was something…

“Yes,” Fell had murmured. “I thought I got the colour right.”

Crowley had blinked. He’d realized in a rush that the red of the collar — and of Fell’s tie — was the exact same shade as his hair. “How— ?” He’d started. “How did you—?”

Fell had tutted. “Do you always question men who buy you jewelry?”

Crowley had huffed. “Don’t know, never been bought jewelry before.” He’d eyed the collar. “How do I put it on?” 

Fell had gone suspiciously quiet. “Well,” he’d said, after a moment, “you don’t. That is, it’s meant to be put on by another.” He’d reached out and brushed the back of Crowley’s neck with the tips of his fingers. “Would you allow me?”

Crowley’s mouth had gone dry. He’d managed to nod. Fell had moved his hand to Crowley’s shoulder and pressed down. It had been a firm touch, not without gentleness, but with the clear expectation of command. Crowley had sunk to his knees.

The collar had been slipped on. Fell had done up the clips. “There,” he’d said, satisfaction in his voice. “Not too tight?”

Crowley had shaken his head. He hadn’t had words. The collar fit perfectly, just like the belt.

“Good,” Fell had murmured, and then he’d smiled. It’d been a wicked smile. “And now this.”

Crowley had finally found his voice. “Oh, hell no.”

“Oh, heaven yes,” Fell had admonished. “After all, you’ve already agreed to it.” He’d held up the leash. To his credit, he hadn’t moved to immediately put it on. Crowley, still on his knees, was allowed to look at it. “Think of it as a tool, one like any other.”

“A tool for me,” Crowley had hissed. “To restrain me.”

“A safety measure then,” Fell had said calmly. “To keep you next to me. To keep you safe.”

“Nothing about this op is safe,” Crowley had grumbled.

Fell’s eyes had darkened. “No,” he’d agreed. “It isn’t.”

Crowley had finally bent his head for the leash. It attached to the back of his collar. The moment it was on he’d felt a kind of panic seize him. He was bound now. Trapped. He was going to— 

“Shh,” Fell had said. He’d stepped forward and pulled Crowley’s head to his thigh. “Shh, Crowley. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine. I’m right here.”

It had been horribly comforting. Crowley had kept his lips clamped shut, determined not to whimper, knowing that Beeze and everyone else could hear anything he said through his belt. He’d allowed himself a full second of contact, though, his forehead pressed into the fine, soft fabric of Fell’s suit, before he’d pulled back. Fell had let him, his expression restrained, his eyes infinitely tender, and Crowley had swallowed and looked away. 

“Let’s go,” Crowley had said, rising to his feet. He’d hoped Fell would ignore the way his voice was shaking. “Douglas’s ride will be at his building soon.”

Fell hadn’t said anything, only nodded, but he’d touched his hand to the small of Crowley’s back as Crowley had locked his door. They’d walked down to Fell’s car and he’d driven them back to Douglas’s building in silence. Once there they’d parked and walked through the underground lot to the front door, and then they’d only had to wait a minute before the limo had appeared. The driver had come around to open the door for Fell. “Mr Douglas?”

Fell had nodded, his shoulders straight, his expression controlled, Crowley’s leash wrapped confidently around his left hand. “Yes.”

“This way, sir.”

Crowley had swallowed and followed him to the car. The moment they were inside they’d started driving towards the docks. Not to the dirty, gritty, commercial side, where so many people had been unloaded off cargo containers, but to the fresh, clean, public marina, where tourists came to look at the Thames.

Now Crowley swallows and looks down at his hands. He still hates the leash, but they are minutes away from meeting with people who sell other people for money, there is a higher-than-average chance they’re going to get made and shot, and he’s worrying about wearing a leash that’s a legitimate part of his costume for this op. He shakes his head. It’s time to get his act together. 

Fell looks over at him with a faint smile. “Alright there, Tony?”

Crowley huffs a grin. “Yes, sir.” It’s only the second time he’s said it, but the title falls too easily from his lips. 

Fell’s smile widens. “Good boy.”

Crowley flushes. Crap. Costume or not, this is going to be a long night.

The limousine rolls to a stop. Crowley looks out of the tinted windows. It’s hard to see, but there is definitely a party going on. He can see lights and a group of people, hear the faint sound of music — classical, it seems — and just make out the giggle of someone laughing.

“We’re here, sir,” the driver says. He pops open his door and the noise of the party rushes in. Definitely classical, something with strings. Crowley doesn’t know much about anything produced earlier than 1960, but it sounds expensive. “Give me a moment and I’ll get your door.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” a woman says. Her voice is high and bright, almost a laugh. “I know who this must be. The man of the hour!”

Fell’s door is pulled open. A woman is standing there. She’s brown-skinned and smiling, almost blinding in a silver sequined dress, with a tight diamond necklace competing for shine. Her hair is up in a fancy 'do and her dark, somewhat slanted eyes are locked on Fell. “Luke Douglas!”

Fell inclines his head and steps out of the car. He takes her hand when she offers it but is careful, Crowley can see, not to put any actual weight on it. He’s still holding the leash in his other hand and it pulls on Crowley’s neck. Crowley slides across the seat towards him. “Good evening.”

The woman laughs. “Good evening, yes! A very good evening. I’m Zuriel DeAnge, a pleasure to meet you, and who is this?” Her eyes catch on the leash and slide across it to Crowley.

“Why, this is my associate,” Fell says, somehow making the word sound both obvious and suggestive. “Tony.”

“Tony,” Zuriel says, slowly, seeming to savour the taste of it. She looks straight at Crowley, and he shivers. He wants to duck and hide his eyes, but he can’t, because Fell’s hand is still on the leash. Stealing himself, he manages to meet her gaze, and she rewards him with a shark-like smile. “Oh, yes, of course. Please, be welcome at our little assembly.”

Crowley licks his lips, glancing at Fell. “Uh. Thank you?”

Zuriel laughs. “Come, come,” she says, turning to lead them away. “I have people to introduce you to.”

Fell turns to Crowley and raises his eyebrows. Crowley blushes and scoots out the door, climbing quickly to his feet. Fell gives him a nod and then turns to follow Zuriel. She’s walking across the cobblestones of the marina, already waving to other people in the crowd. Crowley takes a moment to look around. 

He’s only been here once before. The marina is high class, very fancy, with boats in the water that cost more than Crowly will make in twenty years. A long white building edged in glass sits to one side but it’s dark, and the party is taking place on the dock. An awning has been set up and lights strung, and a half a dozen people are milling about, maybe a full dozen actually — several are standing at what must be the bar, a long high table set to one side of the awning. Everyone is dressed to the nines. Crowley sees evening gowns he knows cost thousands of pounds, jewelry that could put the Queen to shame, and suits so inky-black they melt into the darkness. Everyone is smiling and holding glasses of champagne. Servers in black and white circulate with trays of nibbles. It could be any other fancy party.

Except for the accoutrements. There are people following the party-goers, most standing at their sides, a few kneeling. These people are dressed more like Crowley is, with tight pants or short shorts, almost-but-not-quite see-through dresses, and much less fancy jewelry. A few are wearing bracelets, some a necklace or a belt that glimmers, but every one of them is wearing a collar. They vary as much as their — owners, Crowley assumes, since _dom_ isn’t the right word. Like he’d said to Fell, they’re not practicing BDSM; they’re perverting something consensual into something much closer to slavery — and every collar matches the person it belongs to. A tall woman in a blue-green dress has a shorter, rounder woman at her side. The shorter woman is wearing a simple white ensemble, something that should look innocent but manages to hug all of her curves, and she’s wearing a blue-green collar around her throat. She looks uncomfortable, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Crowley has to swallow and look away.

All of these people are caught — trapped — like he would be if Fell really were Douglas. It makes him sick. It makes him— 

The leash jerks. Crowley stumbles and looks up at Fell. The white-haired man is staring down at him expectantly, and Crowley realizes that they’ve stopped walking. They’ve reached the dock. Zuriel is turning towards a man Crowley vaguely knows. “Judge Wilkins, how lovely to see you again!”

Crowley uses every trick he’d ever learned to keep his shock from showing. Judge _Wilkins._ The fucking slimeball! Crowley recognizes him now. He retired a few years ago, five or six, maybe. A well respected man. There was talk of knighting him for his service to the community. Good thing someone reconsidered. 

“This is Luke Douglas — yes, that Luke Douglas — and I thought the two of you should meet. Oh, but where is the pretty Ana tonight?” Zuriel looks around. “Don’t tell me she couldn’t make it?”

Judge Wilkins smiles at her pleasantly. He’s an older man, he must be somewhere in his late seventies by now but Crowley wouldn’t know it to look at him. He’s wearing a formal suit with a flashy tie that matches the collar of the woman standing awkwardly next to him. “She’s being punished, actually, for speaking out of turn. A terrible lapse. I’ve brought Lin instead. Say hello, Lin.”

“Hello,” the slight woman says softly.

Wilkin’s face creases in irritation. “Louder than that, woman. Ms DeAnge can’t hear you.”

Lin looks terrified. Her eyes are wide and she starts to shake. “I’m — I — ” she clears her throat. “Sorry. H-hello, Ms DeAnge.”

Zuriel smiles at her kindly. “Hello, Lin. It’s lovely to meet you.” She throws a sly look at Wilkins. “Have you brought her as an example tonight? Or just to witness?”

Wilkin’s expression turns cruel. He looks like a cat who’s caught a canary and has only shredded one wing, giving the poor thing hope it might still get away. “I’m not sure yet. We’ll see how she does for the rest of the night.”

Zuriel steps back with a laugh. “Enjoy yourself, then.” She turns away and loops her arm through Fell’s, leaning in close as they walk away. “A softie, you’d think, to look at him, but nothing could be further from the truth! Poor Lin. Ah well. He’s an absolute master on the rack, a true devotee. You absolutely have to see him. Marvelous!”

Fell’s eyebrows rise. “Is he really? I might just take you up on that. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a worthwhile performance.”

“Then we’ll have to give you an opportunity to watch later,” Zuriel says with a grin. “I’m sure Lin will oblige us. Somehow, they always do!” She laughs again. Crowley feels a shiver. “Come this way next, I see Mrs Shield.”

The next fifteen minutes are whirlwind who's-who of London’s backdoor powerhouses. There are businessmen and investment brokers, a shipping magnum, two members of the minor nobility, and a police chief who retired under dubious circumstances. Every person makes Crowley want to beat their face in but he forces himself to smile. He bets Beeze is already chewing bullets, listening to this.

And yet this is only the small fry. Crowley knows that even as he has to fight to keep his face from breaking. Everyone here could be arrested and thrown to the pits and it wouldn’t touch the core of the real organization. Fell was right. This party is only the first step.

Fell himself is doing wonderfully. As Crowley grits his teeth and struggles, Fell is at ease and smiling, the very picture of an up-and-comer happy to finally be getting a leg up. He shakes hands and accepts congratulations, compliments people appropriately, and follows Zuriel wherever she leads. Several people slide their glances from him to Crowley, their smiles turning suggestive and their excitement apparent. Crowley clenches his jaw and avoids their eyes, bearing it as much as he can. He’s certainly not pulling his role off with the grace that Fell is, but that seems to be expected. No one here who’s wearing a collar is having a good time. The owners don’t seem to care and a few actually grin, obviously enjoying the discomfort. 

Still, it’s worth it. Crowley’s inside knowledge quickly comes in handy. The first time is during a conversation with a minor aristocrat. Crowley remembers that ‘B.B.R.’ was noted in Douglas’s notebook as receiving a shipment two weeks ago. Zuriel introduces the man as Bruce Rose, “the Baronette, you know,” and Fell is able to glance over at Crowley, who blinks once.

“Of course,” Fell says smoothly. “A moment, please.” 

There’s a server walking around with a plate of pastry-shrimp things. Fell stops her and takes one of them, then grips Crowley’s leash to hold him still. Stepping in close, Fell leans towards Crowley’s ear and says, in the lowest possible voice. “Close your eyes. Tell me. Then sink to your knees.”

Crowley does as he’s told. “Shipment. Two weeks ago,” he says, his eyes already shut. Then he goes to the ground, the wooden planks of the dock hard under his shins.

“Good boy,” Fell murmurs, loud enough to be heard, and runs a hand through Crowley’s hair. Crowley can’t help but shiver. Then there’s the smell of shrimp and the touch of something warm against his lips. Crowley opens his mouth. The pastry-shrimp thing is set gently in his mouth, and Crowley closes his mouth to eat it. Fuck the rich but it really is delicious. He chews and hears a chuckle from somewhere above him. 

“Hungry, is he? I’m sure. He’s a slip of a thing, Douglas. Some might think you starve him!” There’s something disgustingly like approval in the Baronette’s voice. 

Fell’s arm tightens. His voice, however, is smooth. It neither confirms nor denies. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?”

“He certainly is pretty,” Zuriel coos. It sounds like she’s taken a step closer. “And so well trained!”

Fell strokes a hand through Crowley’s hair. “Not at all, actually, this is his first ever event. He’s completely new to me. I’m hardly the only one with a new toy to play with, though.” There’s a shift of fabric. “Baronette Rose, how has your most recent acquisition settled in?”

The Baronette chuckles. “Very well, very well, thank you for asking. Of course, they’re not here tonight. Much too green for an event like this!”

“Of course,” Fell says, but there’s a kind of challenge in his voice. His hand slides down to grip the back of Crowley’s neck and squeeze. “Not everyone can be ready in such a short time. Up now, Tony. You may open your eyes. There’s a good boy.”

The world swims for a moment in Crowley’s vision as he climbs to his feet. The baronette is smiling magnanimously, Zuriel looks happily impressed, and Fell is watching him with steady eyes. Crowley locks onto him, forcing his knees not to buckle. “Yes, sir.”

The baron chuckles. “Yes, good, very good, though I suppose we’ll see, hmm?” He turns to Zuriel. “How much longer, my dear?”

“Not long now,” Zuriel says smoothly. “Ah, there’s Madam Rankin. Mr Douglas, do come with me and say hi.”

Crowley frowns and glances at the Baron. His genial expression has shifted into something ruthless, hard and hungry and jealous, but Fell’s hand on the leash drags Crowley away. He stumbles after him.

The second time comes only a few minutes later. Fell is speaking to Madam Rankin — a prominent ‘business owner,’ Zuriel had introduced, with quotation marks firmly in place — except they’re interrupted by the woman in the blue-green dress.

“Mr Douglas!” she exclaims, loud enough to draw a couple of glances. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

Crowley immediately starts to sweat, but Fell only raises one cool eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes,” the woman says. “My last delivery was woefully short.”

Fell frowns. He glances at Crowley, who's thinking furiously. He blinks twice. Fell turns back to the woman. “‘Short’ how, Ms— ?” 

Zuriel steps forward. “Ms LeClaire,” she says with a frown, “this is hardly the venue.”

“Well, I won’t have another opportunity, will I?” Ms LeClaire complaints. Crowley is busy running the name through his mind. LeClaire. LeClaire. “My restaurants will hardly run themselves.”

No, that isn’t right. He doesn’t know ‘LeClaire’ but he knows ‘Lee-Lee’ and she wasn’t in the food industry. Crowley looks at Fell and blinks twice again.

Fell doesn’t give any indication that he’s noticed, but he does shake his head at Ms LeClaire. “Please, madam, we both know that isn’t true.”

Unexpectedly, she laughs. “Oh, alright, fine, but Ms DeAnge would prefer to pretend we live in a polite society.” She shoots Zuriel a grin. “Still, I do need to make up the difference. The last batch were absolute beasts. I had to let over half of them go.”

“The quality of the merchandise is not under my purview,” Fell says, sounding honestly regretful.

“Yes, you get the coffee and the grinds,” Ms LeClaire sighs. “Very well. Do make it up to me, however. Think of me fondly the next time you get an appropriate shipment, yes?”

Fell smiles and suddenly Crowley can see teeth. “Now what kind of a businessman would I be if I did not?”

LeClaire laughs again. “Oh, you,” she says. She looks at Zuriel. “He’s a feisty one, it seems. You didn’t say he would be.”

Zuriel is looking at Fell curiously. “I didn’t know.”

Crowley isn’t sure he likes her tone. Fell simply bows. “It is not only the magicians who do not reveal their secrets.”

That makes both women smile. “Of course,” LeClaire says. “Until later, then.” She throws him a look over her shoulder as she walks away. The plump girl in white, who has not looked up from her shoes the entire time, trails after her.

Zuriel shakes her head. “That woman,” she says, but she sounds fond. “No sense of decorum.” She turns back to Madam Rankin. “I’m sorry, where were we?”

Madam Rankin laughs. “We were only discussing the latest gossip,” she says in a thick french accent. 

“Ah, but such things make the world run round,” Fell says.

“True,” Madam Rankin agrees. Her eyes are twinkling. “But not all of it is kind, no?”

Fell shrugs and replies. Crowley’s listening but his attention is suddenly caught by something happening at the entrance to the marina. A dark, half-familiar car is pulling up. It idles for a moment and then shuts off. A guard Crowley hadn’t noticed before steps forward. 

Crowley’s stomach twists. He turns to look at Fell. He’s still speaking to Madam Rankin, looking wholly engrossed in the conversation. Crowley moves to stand closer to him, trying to angle himself so he can watch the entrance without Zuriel or anyone else noticing.

It isn’t easy, but at least it’s dark; Crowley’s eyes are shit but he does better in low light. He’s pretty sure the guy getting out of the car is Marcus Wright. He’s the real Douglas’s second in command, a mean sonofabitch, not half as clever as he thinks he is but with ambition to spare. 

_Shit._ Could Wright be looking for Douglas? Or is he here to expose Fell? It could be he just wants to get into the party; Wright always seemed like the kind of guy who’d try to edge out his boss if he had half a chance.

Whatever the case, he can’t be allowed in. If he doesn’t already know Fell’s impersonating Douglas, he’ll figure it out right quick. Also, and perhaps most importantly, he knows Crowley. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out this was a sting.

Crowley looks away from the entrance and down at his shoes. What’s he going to do? He doesn’t think Wright would catch onto him immediately — the lack of sunglasses and badge would likely throw him off — but sooner or later, he’d make the connection between ‘Tony’ and ‘Detective Inspector Crowley.’ Or, as Wright likes to call him, ‘that self-righteous too-pretty prick of a pig.’ He’s got to do something fast.

But what? Crowley glances at Fell. He’s still smiling and talking to Zuriel and Madam Rankin. None of them have even glanced towards the marina entrance. Crowley risks a look around and sees that most people haven’t. Their attention is on their conversation, the wine and their food, but Crowley knows that won’t last. Wright can make a fuss. Somehow he has to warn Fell. But how? He dares another glance up. Wright — if it is Wright — is arguing with the guard now. He’s waving his hands and looking towards the party. The guard is shaking his head. Shit, he’s running out of time. Crowley, never good at standing still, starts to fidget, shifting his weight from foot to foot. There’s a tug at his neck and he realizes he must have pulled on the leash.

Fell looks over. He frowns, and then his eyes seem to catch on Crowley’s expression and his expression narrows. “Tony?” 

Crowley bites his lower lip and looks down. What can he say? “Sorry, sir.”

Surprisingly, Zuriel laughs. “Oh, dear,” she says. “Getting bored now, are we?” She looks up at Fell and grins. “Could it be that standing around while his master talks to fancy people isn’t his forte? I’m shocked.”

Fell smiles ruefully. “I’m afraid it is not, Ms DeAnge, Madam Rankin. You have indeed caught him out.”

Zuriel laughs again. “You must keep him around for another reason, then, besides his looks. Though I must say, he’s very pretty.”

“Thank you,” Fell says, casting a fond look at Crowley. “I have to agree.”

“But pretty people are a dime a dozen,” Madam Rankin dismisses. “Surely he must have other qualities?”

Fell looks over and his eyes linger on Crowley’s neck. “Yes,” he murmurs. “He does.” He clears his throat. “Everyone does, of course. That’s half the experience of a new acquisition, is it not? Exploring what it is about them that makes them unique?”

“I suppose it is,” Zuriel says. There’s a new curiosity in her expression. “And what have you learned about Tony here?”

Fell smiles. “That he is very good at doing what he’s told.”

That startles Crowley. He can’t help it. He has the sudden, mental image of Beeze staring outraged at her speaker. “I am not!”

Both women laugh. Fell actually smiles, a real upturn of his lips, and the sight is so distracting that Crowley forgets all about Wright for a moment. “Oh,” Fell says in a voice like steel wrapped in silk, “but I think you are. With the proper motivation.”

“Yes,” Madam Rankin agrees. Her smile contains too many teeth. “It’s all about the proper motivation, is it not?” She turns to rake her eyes over Crowley. “And I have to admit now that I’m curious.” She glances at Zuriel with a smile. “Might we give them an opportunity to exhibit, perhaps?”

Zuriel grins. “Yes, I think we might.” 

Crowley has to swallow. Fell’s still looking at him. Crowley clenches his toes inside his boots and then decides to use the opportunity to warn Fell about Wright. He glances towards the entrance to the marina. 

Fell frowns at him for a second. Crowley glances again.

Madam Rankin and Zuriel are still talking. “... several options,” Zuriel is saying, and Madam Rankin is agreeing. “Yes, but surely we could…” Crowley isn’t really listening, though. Fell is finally glancing to the side. His eyes are widening. Crowley blinks once, sweating more now, trying to communicate the danger. 

Fell nods subtly, once, an indication that he’s seen, and turns himself just slightly. Crowley notes that he can more easily see the entrance, and also that Zuriel and Madam Rankin cannot. 

The two women have stopped speaking. Fell raises an eyebrow at them. “Do we have a plan, ladies?” 

Zuriel grins. “Oh, we have many plans, but there is one in particular that we think will work very well. In fact, any moment now…” She trails off and looks around. Crowley starts, worried that she’ll glance towards the entrance, but her focus is on the water. A few other people are stirring, too. Crowley sees that they’re also turning towards the Thames. He looks over his shoulder and sees that Wright is still arguing with the guard.

“Ah ha!” Zuriel exclaims. Her smile widens. “What perfect timing. Here we are!”

A shape suddenly materializes out of the darkness. Crowley stares, stunned. Gliding into the marina is a boat. It’s huge, too quiet for its size, some kind of luxury liner that’s so beyond his pay grade Crowley has the sudden, irrational fear that he’ll break it just by looking at it. It’s massive, though, large enough to float a hundred people at least, with three decks — one at the water line, a half deck above, and then what Crowley can only think of as a _party deck_ on top — and at least one more set of portholes set below the prow. 

“Excellent,” Zuriel says, and then she raises her voice. “Everyone! Thank you for your patience. As you can see, our transportation has arrived. Collect your belongings, drain your drinks, and step onboard!” She turns back to Fell and takes his arm. “Shall we?”

Fell smiles at her and very deliberately turns his back to the marina entrance. “Certainly.” 

Crowley glances back. A second guard is walking over to Wright. She’s putting her hands up and shaking her head, very deliberately not letting Wright inside. A third guard has also appeared, standing not too far away. Crowley relaxes. Even if he rushes them, Wright won’t make it through. Not before they get onto the ship.

The ship. Fell is walking towards it. Crowley feels a tug on the leash and realizes that he’s gotten a few steps ahead. Turning his back on Wright, he hurries forward. They’re okay now. They’re safe.

Except that the moment he steps onto the ship, Crowley realizes that’s not true. The cold steel under his boots reminds him that he’s walking into enemy territory. Worse than that, if they sail too far away from land, his microphone will fizzle. It only has a certain range. Even cell phones could be spotty if they get too far out.

Crowley swallows, suddenly aware of the collar around his throat. He’s now very much only Tony, Luke Douglas’s captive plaything, and there’s no one on this boat he can really trust.

As if sensing his sudden terror, Zuriel turns to look him full in the eye.

“Now,” she says, with a sudden wide smile, “the real party begins.”

  
  
  



	4. Chapter Four

  
  


The top floor of the ridiculously expensive yacht is made of hardwood. Crowley’s trying to wrap his brain around that as he follows Fell up the staircase and onto the deck. “I’ve just realized I never got you a drink,” Zuriel says to Fell as they reach the top step. She doesn’t give them time to look around, but leads the way immediately to the central bar. It’s made of glass and crystal and has an abominable number of bottles stacked across it. “What a terrible host I am. What do you prefer? Vodka? Gin? Scotch?”

“It’s still early,” Fell says, holding Crowley’s leash loosely in one hand. “Let’s start with a martini. Gin, please. Nolett’s reserve, if you have it.”

“We do,” Zuriel says. There’s a pleased little smile on her face. “Freddie?”

A gender-neutral face turns away from another partygoer to smile sunbeam bright at Zuriel. Crowley looks at them and has to curl his toes inside his boots to keep his reaction from his face. The servers on the dock had been dressed in the usual black and white ensemble but Freddie is wearing a jaggedly sharp collar, a see-through vest of fine silver fabric, and what might be a tight leather skirt or pair of pants. It should look garish, but the silver fabric is such a tight weave that it shows skin only in glimpses. The effect is _ unbelievably  _ sexy. Also, unlike the other people wearing collars, Freddie looks genuinely happy to see Zuriel. 

“Coming right up, my lady.” Freddie turns their smile on Fell. “How many olives would you like, sir?”

“Two,” Fell says, not quite smiling but seeming unable to resist curling his mouth at least a little. “And make it dirty, please.”

Freddie winks. “Always, sir.”

“Now, now, Freddie,” Zuriel chuckles, leaning over the bar. “Save that for later.” She puts a hand on Freddie’s wrist in what manages to be both a gentle and a possessive way. “A single for me, please. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what kind. You know what I prefer.”

“I do, my lady,” Freddie breathes. They sway closer to Zuriel and close their eyes briefly before blinking twice and standing up straight. “Coming right up.”

“Good,” Zuriel purrs, low and pleased. Freddie goes pink as they start grabbing bottles.

Fell turns to Zuriel. “So what now? Is it time to kick back?” He leans one elbow on the bar. “Relax?”

Zuriel laughs. “Of course! It’s our reward for being so restrained with all this lovely company about.” She turns to look at Freddie, smiles, and then lets her eyes drift over the deck. Crowley follows her gaze and sees that things have definitely kicked up a notch. Many of the people wearing collars are now kneeling. Most are being fondled in some way, usually just a hand on a head or cheek, but there’s some movement in a shadowed section that Crowley is pretty sure is someone’s mouth getting fucked. Zuriel is smiling as she looks over it all. “We’ll motor out for an hour or so, get into international waters, and then let everyone have a little fun.” 

“And what sort of fun might that be?” Fell asks. 

Freddie puts his drink on the bar and he takes it. Raising it to his lips, he takes a sip and then stops. His eyebrows go up. Turning to Freddie, he inclines his head. Freddie goes pink again.

Zuriel laughs. “Whatever sort of fun you prefer, of course.” Her voice drops to a purr. “We’re all curious to see you in action.”

Crowley swallows, suddenly nervous, but Fell’s expression is self-satisfied and sure. “Is that so?”

Zuriel’s smile grows wider. “It is.” She turns to Crowley and looks him up and down. Crowley tries and fails to hide his squirm, which seems to make Zuriel’s grin grow even wider. “Even more so with the understanding that your companion for the evening is new, unused to company, and untrained. It seems a risk to take him with you tonight.”

“Hm,” Fell murmurs.

Zuriel raises an eyebrow. “I assume you know what you’re doing.”

Fell’s smile gains a hint of teeth. “I do.”

“Excellent,” Zuriel purrs. “In that case, I would advise that you amuse yourself for an hour or so, have another drink, and then join us below.” She winks. “I think a little demonstration is in order.”

Crowley starts to sweat. Oh God, this is really happening. Fell had warned him but somehow the possibility hadn’t seemed real until this very moment. An hour. One hour. Sixty minutes. And then— Then—

Fell’s holding Zuriel’s gaze. There’s no sweat on _ his  _ brow. He inclines his head. “One hour.”

Zuriel laughs and reaches for her drink. It’s bright pink and shimmering and there’s a candied cherry glinting at the bottom of the glass. “Until then,” she raises the glass. “Mr Douglas. Tony.” She takes a sip and closes her eyes briefly in satisfaction. “Mm. Wonderful, Freddie. Thank you.”

Freddie ducks their head. “Of course, my lady.”

Zuriel smiles one last time at each of them and then walks away in the direction of the stairs. 

“Fucking hell,” Crowley says, the words spilling out of his mouth the moment her back is turned. “Shit. I mean, fuck, I mean — ”

Freddie meets his eye, winks, and turns away to serve another customer. Fell just chuckles and reaches for him, turning Crowley’s chin so he meets Fell’s eyes. “It’s okay.”

“Is it?” Fuck, Crowley didn’t mean for his voice to come out so high pitched. 

Fell, the bastard, only smiles. “It is. Deep breaths. Do you need a moment?” His smile turns wicked. “I could put you on your knees, if you like?”

Crowey shudders. Oh, God. His knees. His knees like back at his apartment, when Fell had put the collar on him and Crowley had pressed his forehead into Fell’s thighs. Crowley’s legs actually shake for a moment before he straightens them. No. They’re not here for his personal kink exploration, they’re here for a _ mission.  _ “No, I’m okay. I’m good.”

“You are,” Fell agrees. The humour has faded from his expression and his voice is suddenly low and hypnotic. “Very good.”

_ Jesus.  _ Crowley stares at him. “Ngk.” 

“In fact,” Fell goes on, still in that silk-like voice, “you’ve been so good, and so patient, and so helpful, that you deserve a reward. What would you like, Tony? Would you like to go on your knees for me?”

His fucking legs tremble again. “I— ”

“What, Tony? What do you want?” Fell pauses for a heartbeat. “What do you _ need?” _

Oh, God. The boat is moving, it must be moving, because the deck is suddenly unsteady under his feet. Fell is looking at him with such soft, sweet eyes, and his voice is so rich and warm. Crowley has to bite his lip to give his legs the strength to continue holding him. “I— ” he gets out. “I _ can’t— ” _

“You can,” Fell says. “Here.” He leaves his glass on the bar and takes Crowley by the shoulders, leading him away to an unused section of the deck. “It’s just you and me now. It’s okay. Whatever you need, I can give you. Whatever you want, you can have.”

Crowley gasps. He digs into whatever scrap of control he can find. No. He’s never— He’s never gotten everything he— He clenches his eyes shut again. The mission. He has to focus on the mission. The mission, the mission, the— 

Fell’s hands are still on his shoulders. His voice is in his ear. “It’s okay.”

“Fuck,” Crowley breathes, and gives in, and falls. He sinks to the deck, wrapping his arms around Fell’s legs and presses his forehead to the soft, plush, wonderfulness of Fell’s thighs. Shit. It feels good. It feels _ so  _ good. It does.

“That’s it,” Fell says, his voice soothing and low. He lifts one hand and lays it on Crowley’s head. “You’re okay.” His fingers start carding through Crowley’s hair. Crowley groans low in the back of his throat and goes away, somewhere far away, somewhere soft.

It’s nice here. Safe. “You’re okay,” Fell says again, at once from a great distance and right in Crowley’s ear. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

The floaty feeling doesn’t last for long. It stretches endlessly for one glorious moment and then snaps back, like a rubber band that’s almost, but not quite, reached its breaking point. Crowley gasps and falls back into his body, feeling the deck under his knees and the wind in his hair. Fell is rubbing circles into his shoulders, one hand on either side of him, and Crowley feels for a wild second as though the agent is actually holding him together. Like he’d fly apart if Fell let go.

But then his sense of self re-establishes. Crowley sucks air into his lungs and remembers where he is. What he’s doing. He groans in embarrassment. Fell stops rubbing circles into his shoulders and Crowley’s stomach swoops. Oh, god. He presses his face into Fell’s thighs for a moment before pulling back. What has he done? He’s just fallen apart on his first undercover mission. Fell must think— Crowley doesn’t want to imagine what Fell must think. “I’m sorry,” he rasps. “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Fell says. His hands are still on either side of Crowley’s shoulders. “No, sweetheart, never be sorry. Not for being who you are.” He pulls back and takes Crowley’s chin again, forcing him to look up. “I told you it was okay.”

Crowley shakes his head. It pulls him out of Fell’s grip, and that makes him feel worse, but he pushes through it. “I fell apart. I _ failed.”  _

“You did no such thing,” Fell says sternly. The hand still on Crowley’s shoulders slides around to the back of his neck and tightens. The sudden grip pulls on his collar. Crowley chokes. The crazy thing is, it feels _ good. _ It steadies him. “You did exactly what you needed to do, exactly what felt right at the time.”

“But I— ” The mission. He’d forgotten for a moment there about the _ mission. _

“It’s okay,” Fell says again. His smile quirks. “You’re hardly the only one between us suffering with being pulled in two different directions. And see?” He turns slightly to gesture at the deck. “It did us no harm.”

Crowley bites his lip but glances over. He braces himself for some kind of backlash but Fell is right — no one looks upset. No one is pointing at them, or sniggering, or calling them cops, or glaring at Crowley for not being strong enough to stay on his feet. Only a few people are looking at them at all, and all of their gazes are either satisfied or sympathetic.

Or hungry. Baronet Rose is watching them. His eyes are heavy. As Crowley stares, he actually licks his lips.

Crowley shudders and turns back to Fell. “Okay,” he says. So his personal little I-need-a-moment hasn’t tanked them. There remains the small reason he _ needed  _ a moment in the first place. An hour, Zuriel had said. Sixty minutes. “They’re going to— ”

Fell’s hand is still on the back of his neck. His voice is implacable. “They’re not going to do anything,” he says. Something in his tone makes Crowley look up. Fell is staring at him and his eyes are very, very blue. “I’m the only one who is going to touch you.”

Crowley’s breath hitches. “Oh,” he breathes. He lets his eyes fall shut again and tips his head forward until he’s resting his forehead against Fell’s thighs. The feeling is already safe and solid and familiar. “Okay.” He feels the weight of the collar against his throat. Fell’s collar. Attached to Fell’s leash. “That’s good.”

Fell runs a hand through his hair. “Is it?” 

Crowley laughs slightly, turning his face so he can look up. His cheek is still pressed against Fell’s leg and he kind of wants to never move. “What would we do about it if it wasn’t? We’re on a boat.”

Fell’s eyes are impossibly soft. “I’d find a way.”

That makes Crowley smile. “I’m sure you would.” He believes it, too. If he really had to leave, if they needed to get out, Fell would make it happen. The reality of it makes him feel safe. “I’m alright, I just — ” he feels the shame again. God, he’s so fucking weak. “ — I just needed a moment.”

Fell’s expression is gentle. “Take all the time you like.” His hand keeps moving through Crowley’s hair. “I can’t even imagine,” he murmurs. “I’m having enough difficulty keeping my head on straight, and this is a completely new experience for you.” He sighs and looks around. “And it’s hardly taking place in the best of circumstances. I’m not able to look after you the way I’d prefer.”

“No?” Crowley asks. He has to suppress a yawn. God, why does he feel so exhausted all of a sudden? It’s not that late. “What would you do differently, then?”

Fell strokes a hand down Crowley’s cheek. “I’d wrap you up in soft blankets. I’d curl up beside you on the couch.” His voice is low. “I’d tell you over and over again how good you’re being, how proud I was of you, and I’d shower you with kisses until you believed me.” 

Crowley’s breath hitches and he looks up. Fell is staring at him, his expression is warm and safe. And hungry. 

“And then,” Fell goes on, his voice dropping, “when you’re feeling lovely and comfortable, soothed and satisfied, I’d push harder. I’d tie you up with rope, pinch you until you shouted, edge you until you squirmed, and then I’d take care of you all over again, and calm you back down.” His gaze is heavy. “I’d show you how to trust me, with patience and with time. I’d learn every expression you make. I’d spoil you, deny you, spend hours and days memorizing you, and then maybe, eventually, you’d understand that I want only to take care of you, to satisfy you, to provide for you and care for you, on every level.” 

Crowley’s face is red. His whole body feels hot. He’s going to burst into flames. He’s on fire, he’s flying, he’s soaring without wings.

Fell closes his eyes and sighs, breaking the spell. “That’s what I would do. If we weren’t here. If we didn’t have this to accomplish first.” 

It’s both a let down and a promise. Crowley deflates and swells again, like a hot air balloon. The air feels heavy between them. He knows he has to say something. He isn’t sure what, or even if he can form words, but he knows he has to try. “I’d… like that…” he manages. He coughs, swallows. “I… er _ … ngk … _ yeah. That. I’d like that. Maybe.”

Fell flutters his eyes open and smiles at him. It isn’t the cool smile he’s given Zuriel, or even the half-turned thing he’d gifted Freddie. This is a warm smile, rich with satisfaction and promise, that lifts his lips and shines out through his eyes. With his white curly hair lit from behind by the deck lights, it makes him look even more like an angel. “You would?” His expression turns rueful. “Not everyone does. I’ve been told I’m too intense, more than once.”

Crowley grins. It’s a sudden, full thing that erupts from the fire he’d been consumed by a second before. “You are. And a bit of a bastard, I reckon.”

Fell’s hand tightens on the back of Crowley’s neck. His smile widens. “Is that so?”

Crowley grins back. He’s feeling steadier now, safe. “Oh, yeah.”

Fell’s eyes burn into Crowley’s own. “You don’t sound as though you mind.”

Crowley’s own grin turns wicked. “I’ve been called a bastard myself.”

“You’ve been called worse things, I imagine.”

Crowley laughs. “Well. Yeah.”

Fell’s hand on his cheek strokes lightly. “‘Devil,’ I assume,” Fell says. His voice is a low, pleased murmur and he’s still smiling. “‘Fiend,’ most likely.”

Crowley grins up at him. “Can’t say I’d ever been called that before.”

“You very probably should have been.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Fell chuckles. He releases Crowley’s neck to slide his hand down Crowley’s back, pulling Crowley more firmly against his thigh. “Undoubtedly, indeed. Well, I’m glad to hear you aren’t intrinsically against this sort of experience. I had rather thought this venue might have soured the possibility forever for you.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, shrugging carefully. Fell’s rubbing circles into his back now. “I don’t know. It’s not been so bad, really.”

Fell looks down at him. His expression makes Crowley laugh. “No, really,” Crowley goes on. “Maybe it’s not how I’d have chosen to spend the evening, but I feel like I’ve been useful, yeah?”

“You have been,” Fell says, his voice rich with praise. “Very much.”

Crowley feels his face redden. He turns to hide it, knowing he looks terrible when he blushes, all red and splotchy. Damn his hair. “Uh, good.”

Fell rubs more circles into his back. “Is that something you enjoy? Being useful?”

Crowley wishes deeply for his shades. “Ah, er, sometimes, yeah. I mean, who doesn’t?”

Fell smiles. “True. You already know how I enjoy being useful.” Crowley colours again, more deeply this time. “Well,” Fell goes on, looking around, “should we both accomplish a little more before our hour is up, then?” One corner of his mouth curls up higher than the other. He looks mischievous now, less like an angel and more like an imp. “Spread a little trouble, perhaps?”

The glint in his eye is better than a triple-shot espresso. Crowley feels his heart start to pound. “Trouble is my middle name.”

Fell grins down at him. “I thought that was a J.”

Crowley laughs. “The J stands for Joint-Dispute. Heaven doesn’t want me and Hell’s afraid I’ll take over.”

Fell laughs. He actually tips his head back and laughs out loud, a wonderful, bell-like sound that makes Crowley grin wider, charmed. When Fell looks down again, his eyes are actually _ dancing.  _ “I can believe that,” he says. He lets go of Crowley and extends a hand. “Shall we?”

Crowley doesn’t hesitate. He takes Fell’s hand and rises. Fell braces for his weight and pulls him up. It’s easier than Crowley had thought it would be. His knees don’t even wobble. “Whatever you say, sir.” He brushes his pants off easily. “What were you thinking?”

Fell hums and tucks Crowley’s arm into his own, turning them towards the stairs. He’s still holding Crowley’s leash in his other hand, but it’s a casual thing. “The next floor down, I think. Let’s have a look around at all the people Ms DeAnge hasn’t introduced us to.”

“And turn them against each other?” Crowley teases.

The lines beside Fell’s eyes crinkle. “We’ll see.”

  
  


*

  
  


They do, in fact, identify four more players in the smuggling trade. Crowley recognizes two of them, a Mrs Long and a Mr Shou, from Douglas’s notes. Fell uses the trick of popping appetizers into his mouth again to get the details, and then manages to compliment each of them in a way that has them glaring daggers at the other. The other names they learn Crowley memorizes for later, unsure at this point if Beeze is getting anything at all through his belt. They’ve long since left London and are motoring along the coast. Crowley thinks Beeze could probably bounce the signal across other towers, but eventually they’ll just be too far away.

He’s not sure how he feels about that. On one hand, not having an audience to his continued kink exploration is most definitely a good thing. On the other hand, being Fell’s plus one while wearing a leash and a collar is turning out to be more challenging than he would have expected. As embarrassing as it would be, Crowley would have felt steadier with Beeze’s voice in his ear.

Their hour is up too soon. Crowley swallows when Fell glances at his watch and then gives him a nod. Crowley takes a deep breath and nods back.

Fell winds the leash possessively around his right hand. They walk together down to the lower deck. There are fewer people here. Waves splash seawater up the sides of the boat. Fell leads them around to a back stairwell, set in a darker section of the deck. It’s dim here, lit only from below, and there are voices echoing up to them. Indistinct murmurs, mostly, and the occasional peal of laughter. Crowley realizes that he’s holding his breath and forces himself to stop.

He can do this. _ They  _ can do this. As if he’s a mindreader, Fell looks over at him. “I can find a way,” he says, reminding Crowley what he’d said about getting them off the boat.

“No,” Crowley says, and realizes that it’s true. His breath is coming easier now. The tight knot of anxiety in his stomach has loosened. “Let’s do this.”

They walk together down the stairs and make it to the bottom step. “Mr Douglas!” 

Crowley has to blink twice at the light. The bottom floor of the ship is warmly lit, with low ceilings and crowded walls, recessed LED lights in the corners and candles dancing along the tabletops. People sit or stand in groups. Quite a lot of people, actually. It might be as many as twenty, if Crowley counts the half-naked men and women wearing collars on the floor. It’s hard to be sure. There’s furniture scattered around, low tables and plush chairs, and faces blend into the scenery. There’s no hardwood down here, only plush, thick rugs. There’s also a bar running along the back. It’s long and unmanned, with half-opened bottles scattered across it. 

Everyone is staring at them. Crowley grits his teeth. Damn Zuriel for announcing their presence. They might have snuck in, otherwise. He tries to recapture the certainly he’d felt at the top of the stairs and wishes desperately for his shades.

Fell doesn’t look nervous at all. He just stands there, calm and confident, a self-satisfied, cat-got-the-cream expression on his face. It makes him look taller, makes him appear more powerful, more attractive, than anyone else in the room. Crowley’s stomach swoops. Everyone is staring at him but only this man is going to touch him. Crowley goes from terrified to lustful and back so fast he feels dizzy. 

He may need to sit down.

“Over here, over here, excellent timing,” Zuriel is saying. She’s walking towards them, grinning and holding a drink and then ushering them across the room. Heads turn to follow as they move, Fell leading Crowley with a touch on the wrist, leash still held loosely in his other hand. He walks with easy, confident steps. Crowley tries to emulate him and fails. “Have you been having a good time?”

“How could he not?” Baronet Rose asks. Crowley starts. The Baronet is a big man, he shouldn’t have been able to hide in the shadows, and yet it’s only when he stands that Crowley notices him. His breath starts to come in faster. Rose is staring at him, a naked hunger in his eyes. “Good food, excellent drinks, pretty company. The perfect combination, don’t you think?”

Zuriel grins. Her eyes dance in an expression that’s just the slightest bit mean. “I do, indeed. And speaking of drinks, what can I get for you, Mr Douglas? I won’t neglect my duties a second time. Would it be the hour for scotch, yet, do you think?”

“I think it would,” Fell agrees. He’s been watching the Baronet but turns back to Zuriel with a smile. “Whatever you have open, please. On the rocks.”

Zuriel looks delighted. “Wonderful. We have a Macallan 1926 I think you’ll quite enjoy.” Crowley watches her go with a sigh. He doesn’t want to get drunk, of course, but this is the second time no one’s offered him a glass.

Fell, meanwhile, has engaged the Baronet in conversation. It sounds more like a chess game than small talk. 

“It’s very impressive that you’ve taken over such an established business in such a short time, Mr Douglas.”

“Thank you, Baronet Rose. I find such challenges stimulating.”

“Indeed? Now that you’re well settled, have you found your next mountain to climb?”

“Perhaps,” Fell says with a smile. “More of a long-term trek, I would say, rather than an Everest to ascend.”

“Hm. I’m not one for mountains, myself. A short, sweet conquest, that’s what I enjoy.”

“Do such pleasures not pale over time?”

“Not in my experience.” Rose’s gaze drifts back to Crowley. “After all, there are always new bites to sample.”

Fell’s gaze hardens. “We have different tastes, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Rose agrees. His mouth curls in a cruel smile. “There are some treats, however, which all can enjoy.”

Fell’s voice is cool. “Do you think so?”

“I do.”

Crowley can hear the challenge in Rose’s voice. Fell’s saved from having to respond when Zuriel walks back with his drink. Remembering how much the agent had enjoyed Freddie’s drink above deck, Crowley can’t help but watch Fell’s expression as he lifts the glass to his nose. Thankfully, he’s not the only one. Zuriel and the Baronet appear equally entranced. Fell, for his part, has closed his eyes and appears not to notice. He raises the glass to his nose, sniffs, and then takes a small, sampling sip. A moment later he smiles, and it’s like the air has been let back into the room. “Truly magnificent. Thank you, Ms DeAnge.” 

“Oh, you have to thank me in other ways,” Zuriel says, her voice heavier than it had been. “You promised us a demonstration, after all.”

Fell lowers his glass and smiles. “That’s true. Should we begin now?”

Zuriel waves a hand to encompass the room. Once again, she manages to stop all conversation. How does she do that? 

“Whenever you’re ready, of course. We await your pleasure.” There’s a gasp and a cut off moan from the corner, from someone on their knees. Zuriel chuckles. “Some more patiently than others, it seems.”

Fell smiles. He glances over the room, seemingly taking in the stares without being bothered by them, and then turns away. He still has Crowley by the wrist. He tucks Crowley’s hand up under his arm and begins to walk. Crowley jerks along beside him, confused until he realizes that they’re heading towards the back wall. He’d noticed before that it was cluttered but he hadn’t looked closely enough at it at the time. Some copper he is. Now he realizes that it’s covered in bondage equipment. Everything is matte black and blends into the shadows, but there’s a dizzying array of it on display. Leather blinders, loops of rope, tiny little cages, what can only be a cat-of-nine-tails, and far too many whips, belts, and paddles. 

Crowley sways. He might have fallen if not for Fell’s arm. “Oh, Christ.”

His voice breaks the stillness of the room. Crowley feels every eye on him and swallows. Fell, true to form, only smiles.

“So many options,” he says, stopping well before the wall. He turns to look over his shoulder at Zuriel. “I confess, however, that I prefer the classics.”

Zuriel steps forward, her drink held easily in one hand. “Oh? And which classics might those be?”

“Blades,” Fell says, and reaches behind his back. There’s a quiet _ snick  _ from under his jacket and then he’s holding a knife. 

Crowley’s mouth goes dry. 

“Ahh,” Zuriel says, echoing the ‘ooo’s’ from around the room. She leans forward. “What a beautiful device.”

“Yes,” Fell agrees. He’s holding it expertly in his hand. It’s not a long knife, some part of Crowley’s brain realizes. A dagger, really, short but wickedly sharp with a honed edge that catches the light and a smooth, worn, oiled grip that fits into Fell’s palm as if it were made to be there. “A favourite, I confess. I brought it in the hopes of having a chance to use it.” He turns to smile at Crowley. “If the company would prefer it, of course.”

Crowley isn’t sure how he’s still standing. He’s in a daze. It’s a good thing no one expects him to say anything because he’s pretty sure his mouth couldn’t form words if he tried.

“Well, how should we oblige you, then?” Zuriel is asking. Her voice sounds very far away. “Would you like a cross?”

“I think some rope will be fine. Do you have a— ? Ah, yes. Very good.”

Crowley swallows. He’s lost, confused, going fuzzy about the edges. He needs to wake up, get his head back in the game. He needs to— 

Except Fell’s firm, warm hands are on his wrists, and then there’s the whisper of good, strong rope against his skin. Crowley blinks. A black loop is being wound about his arm, looped over his wrists. He opens his mouth, not sure what he expects to come out, and is unsurprised when nothing does. Only air. He’s panting, he realizes. Not with panic, but with _ want.  _

“My dear boy,” Fell says. His eyes are very close and very blue. “Breathe.”

Crowley can only gasp. Rope — braided, black rope — is being threaded up his forearms. It’s being tucked around his shoulders. He groans as it’s twisted tight, and then again as his arms are raised up over his head. There’s a hook in the ceiling. Crowley stares at it as the rope is looped over it and pulled taut. He feels the stretch in his arms. The ceiling isn’t that far away, he’s tall, but it’s certainly a stretch. A _ good  _ stretch. It grounds him. His weight is being evenly distributed down both arms and across both shoulders. It was expertly wound, he realizes. Nothing pinches and he can wiggle both hands. He just can’t move. 

He’s going to combust the instant Fell touches him.

“There you go,” Fell says. He’s standing just far enough away to be a tease and a torture. “You can relax now, my dear. Let go. Trust me to catch you.”

Crowley knows he should resist, but he can’t. His every thought is gone. With a hitch of breath, he lets go. His knees give up and collapse. He falls. For one heart-wrenching, soul-destroying, endless instant, he’s lost, and then he stops with a jerk. The rope has caught him. He hangs from the ceiling, arms above his head, knees not quite touching the carpeted floor. Fell has kept his word.

Crowley stares up at him. Fell meets his eyes. “Okay?”

Crowle wets his lips. He’s hanging from a hook, he has a leash around his throat, his eyes are bare, and there are twenty pairs of eyes staring at him. In front of them all is Fell, knife held loosely in his right hand, eyes calm and steady. Crowley looks at him and knows he’s never been so turned on in his life.

“Please,” he begs. It cracks his lips to make the sound and he doesn’t even know what it means. “Please, sir.”

Fell smiles. With his back to the rest of the room, it’s a smile only Crowley can see. It contains so many things. Pleasure, trust, confidence, and yet an awareness that behind him are thieves, smugglers, and murders. People who would sell other people for money, people who have slaves huddled at their feet, people who won’t take no for an answer.

“What’s my name?” Fell asks.

Crowley shudders. The memory floats towards him from a long way away. Yesterday — had it only been yesterday? — Fell had said that they needed a safe word, something Crowley could say no matter where or when they were, that would tell him that Crowley wasn’t okay with what was happening, that he needed a break, that Fell had to find them a way out.

“What if you can’t?” Crowley had asked. “What if trying puts you in danger, or worse?”

“That’s for me to be concerned about,” Fell had said. “A safe word undercover isn’t going to immediately make the situation stop. It’s just going to be a signal to me, an indication of what you need and want me to do. I require this, Detective. I need to be able to check in with you, whatever happens.”

Crowley had made a face. “Fine, but what word? What could I say that won’t get anyone’s attention? I’m not supposed to argue with you, right?”

“Right,” Fell had said. “What if we use my name? Or, rather, Luke Douglas’s name. On this mission, you’ll call me sir. If I ask you my name and you tell me ‘Douglas,’ that will be the signal that you’re okay, but need a break. A yellow-card, if you will. If I ask you my name and you call me ‘Luke,’ that will mean that you’re absolutely not okay with whatever’s going on and need me to find a way to stop it.” His face had gone hard. “And I will find a way, Crowley. It might not be that instant, it might take me a moment, but I will find a way.” He’d smiled. “And who knows, what you don’t like might be the sub-par foie gras they serve with day old caviar, and that’s all. We have no idea what the night will bring, but either way, you calling me ‘Luke’ will tell me I need to, as quick as possible, find us both a way out.”

“Okay,” Crowley had said grudgingly. “So ‘sir’ if I’m okay, ‘Douglas’ if I need a moment, and ‘Luke’ if I need to red-card out.”

“Yes,” Fell had said, smiling fully “Excellent. You understand.”

And he does understand. Oh god, does Crowley understand. Because Fell is watching him with steady eyes, knife ready, his back to the rest of the room, and that means Crowley has to make this choice now. He can say anything, and Fell will listen to him. He can tell him he needs a moment or he needs to leave, and Fell will find a way — Crowley knows without a doubt in his mind that Fell will find a way — to untie him and let them go.

Except Fell is watching him with steady eyes, knife ready, his back to the rest of the room, and Crowley _ wants  _ this.

“Sir,” he says, looking Fell straight in the eye. “Your name is sir.”

  
  
  



	5. Chapter Five

  
  


The room ‘ooo’s’ again. Baronet Rose looks reluctantly impressed. Zuriel grins and dims the light. Fell... well. 

Fell smiles. 

“Yes,” he says gently. “It is.”

He steps forward with the knife. Crowley’s breath catches in his throat. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of his body, abruptly _here_ in the here and now. There’s an ache running across his shoulders, his breath is coming in fast pants, his heart is beating like a drum. His knees could theoretically support him — the ceiling isn’t that far away — but they are too much like jelly for him to try.

He feels like what he is, a piece of meat hanging from a hook. He’s completely at the mercy of the man in front of him and fuck him sideways if that doesn’t make him feel more turned on than he’s ever been in his entire life. 

“A demonstration, I think you mentioned,” Fell says, loud enough to be heard by the room without turning his head. He’s still staring at Crowley. “I hope you’ll allow me to proceed as I see fit?”

“Certainly,” Zuriel says, her voice low and appreciative. “He is yours, after all.”

“Yes,” Fell says, taking the final step towards Crowley. “He is.”

Crowley bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to make a sound, doesn’t want everyone to know how much he wants this. Maybe he could— 

But Fell’s mouth twitches. He looks like he already knows.

Bastard.

Crowley squirms. Maybe if he— “Oh!”

Crowley stops and stares. Fell has laid the dull edge of the blade against his right wrist. Every thought in Crowley’s brain skids sideways. Stops. He can’t do anything but stare. 

For a moment, neither of them moves. Then the knife begins to slide. It snakes down the inside of his arm. It feels— amazing. Firm. Even. A little bit cold. Crowley catches his breath, unable to look away, as the dull edge describes the groove of his bicep, curls around his right shoulder, descends towards his chest. 

Crowley feels dizzy. How far will it go? What is Fell going to do? He can see the razor-sharp edge on the other end of the blade. Fear chases arousal as it moves. Fell could cut him, stab him, _bleed_ him. 

Will he?

No. The blade reverses course, travels back up his side. It pauses over his heart. Crowley can feel his pulse pounding. He feels almost drunk on adrenalin. His breath is coming hard. Now what?

“Beautiful,” Fell murmurs.

Then he moves. He’s so fast, Crowley gasps. One moment the knife is pressed dully against his heart, the next it’s flat against his left wrist. His bare skin burns at its touch. Crowley moans. It’s an unconscious sound. He hears it as if from far away, his entire attention caught by the sharp edge so close to his fragile skin. He’s dizzy. Lost. He’s glad he isn’t expected to be holding up his own weight right now, because there’s no way that he could. His entire body is on fire. The whole of his attention focused on the knife. If Fell turns... If he twists again...

He does.

His wrist flicks. Crowley chokes. He can feel the sudden puff of air against his skin. The cool breath of the cabin licks against the inside of his wrist. He waits for the flare of pain. A scrap of fabric drifts to the floor as his rapid-fire pulse beats in his ears. Crowley’s eyes begin to ache from staring. 

The pain never comes.

Fell smiles wickedly and steps back.

Crowley gapes at his own arm. Distantly, he can hear the room murmuring. It sounds appreciative. Someone is clapping. Someone else is moaning. There’s also the very faint slap of skin against skin that means someone is enjoying the show _very_ much. Crowley isn’t really paying attention to any of that, though. He’s still trying to make sense of what happened. Because Fell had turned the knife. Crowley had _seen_ him do it and he’d felt the slice, can recall every centimeter Fell had cut through the fabric of his very tight shirt. He can even see the neat, round hole Fell has made, Crowley’s waxy pale skin vivid against the deep black of the fabric and, above his wrist, the rope. But there’d been no pain. And there is no blood.

Crowley feels his world tip sideways when he understands. Fell has used the tip of the blade to cut through his shirt without slicing his skin. He remembers that morning — oh fuck, had it only been that morning? — when Fell had said he enjoyed knife play but didn’t like the sight of blood.

He’s cut through Crowley’s shirt. Without cutting Crowley. And he’s done it so neatly, there’s a round hole to show off his skill.

Crowley realizes that he’s hard. He’s so achingly hard, it’s painful. His erection presses against the unforgiving fabric of his black leather pants. He’s always been turned on by competence, but this — _God_ — he feels like he’s going to die if Fell doesn’t do it again. “Guh.”

Fell smiles. “What was that?”

Crowley has to wet his lips. He can’t speak. All of his blood is down inside his dick. “P— please.”

“Please, what?” 

Crowley clenches his teeth. “F— fuck you.”

Fell _laughs._ “Oh, my dear boy,” he says, and twirls the knife through his fingers.

Crowley is going to kill him.

Thankfully for Fell’s life and also Crowley’s sanity, Fell steps forward. “Steady,” he says, and presses the blade flat against Crowley’s ribs. Crowley realizes that he’s been pushing his chest out, trying to edge closer to Fell. Eager. He flushes and stops abruptly.

Fell chuckles again. He drags the flat of the blade up Crowley’s chest, reaching almost, but not quite, the hollow of Crowley’s throat. The edge trails across the delicate skin of Crowley’s carotid. Crowley inhales desperately, trying not to move. He’s terrified. He trusts Fell, he _does,_ but there’s a knife against his throat. And yet fear does nothing to dampen his arousal. His cock is as hard as ever in his pants.

Fell quirks a smile and turns his hand, sliding the blade down Crowley’s neck and towards his collar bone. “Hold still now,” he says, murmuring softly. “I wouldn’t want to cut you.”

Crowley sucks in air, glaring. “Yeah, sure, wouldn’t want— Ngk!”

He cuts himself off. Fell’s moved again, and this time his brow is furrowed in concentration. He uses the tip of the knife to cut another circle out of Crowley’s shirt. In fact, he does three of them, pausing only long enough for Crowley to gulp down some air before starting again, working a row across his clavicle. 

Crowley feels so turned on he’s lightheaded. “Seriously?” he manages, when Fell finally does step back. He looks down. He can’t quite see the circles, but he can make out enough to see that they’re all nearly exactly the same size, exactly the same width apart, in a neat line across his collar bone. “Bloody hell.”

Fell grins. Crowley growls. Good _God._ He’s never felt anything like this before. He’s drunk, high, focused, _flying._

Fell’s grin turns wicked. He rolls the knife again. Crowley seriously considers combusting on the spot. 

“You bastard,” he groans. “Do that again.”

Fell raises an eyebrow. “Bossy.” 

Crowley opens his mouth to say _something —_ he isn’t sure what — but Fell interrupts him by lifting the knife. Every thought goes out of Crowley’s head.

He can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but gasp and moan and do his best not to writhe as Fell works him. His world narrows to the knife, collapses around its point. He forgets where he is. He forgets what he’s doing. He’s _here._ Maybe he’s always been here. Maybe he always will be.

Ragged breath sounds in his ear. It might be his. It’s impossible to tell. All of his attention is focused on Fell. If he had an ounce of talent he could paint the scene in its entirety. He’ll never forget the way Fell moves the blade, how it sits in his palm. He’s memorized the way Fell’s knuckles curl around the hilt. His chest hammers as a second line of circles is drawn beneath the first and then continued down his side.

“My dear boy,” Fell murmurs at last, stepping back.

Crowley lets his head lull forward as he stares down at his chest. “Christ.”

He is definitely drunk right now. Drunk on Fell, on the candlelight, on the eyes watching them, and the way his arms ache in the best possible way over his head. The room swims in his vision as Fell reverses the knife and presses the hilt underneath Crowley’s chin, using it to lift Crowley’s head so he can stare into Fell’s _extremely_ blue eyes. “Tony,” Fell asks. “How do you feel?”

Crowley manages to blink. There’s something kind and aching in Fell’s expression. He looks like Crowley has always half-expected angels would look — not like the cherubs painted on the inside of the sistine chapel, but the horrifyingly certain warriors of God; the ones who would carry the flaming sword into the Apocalypse and whisper ‘it’s for your own good’ as they tear you apart. He knew a guy who had a tattoo like that on the streets. “It’s not the Devil you need to watch out for,” he’d slurred more than once. “It’s the angels doing the Lord’s work who’ll really fuck you up.”

“Please,” Crowley whispers. It’s half a prayer. 

“What’s my name?” Fell asks. 

Crowley doesn’t need to think. “Sir.”

Fell smiles, and then moves. Crowley _keens._ Fell runs the back of the blade down Crowley’s side. He trails the tip back up, circles Crowley’s nipples once — a terrifying tease — and then finally slices a line down Crowley’s ribs. The fabric parts and Crowley inhales, feeling the cool tip of the knife against his skin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Crowley chants, while Fell cuts a zig-zag down his side. There’s another flash and more pieces of fabric hit the floor. 

It doesn’t stop. Fell does it again. And again. And _again._ Crowley, dizzy with sensation, can only blurrily note that tiny circles ring his belly button now and a second zig-zag pattern runs up his other side. He thinks there’s a ring under his right arm, too, but he isn’t sure.

Through it all there has been absolutely no pain except that which he’s brought upon himself. He’s so hard, his cock aches. He wants — _needs_ — release. He’d take the sharp edge of the knife if it would take away the pressure in his pants. 

“Please,” he begs. “Please, I can’t — I — it _hurts.”_

Fell looks down. “It does?” He sounds amused. “What do you want me to do about it then?”

Crowley jerks against the ropes. “Fuck you,” he bites out. 

Fell tutts. “That’s no way to talk to your betters.”

Jesus Fucking Christ. Crowley’s going to come in his pants. His hips jerk again. “Nuugh.”

Fell’s eyes darken. “That’s right,” he says. He flips the knife around and brandishes the hilt. He runs the wood grain of it up the zig-zags of skin he’s exposed. Crowley gasps at the sensation. “You know what you want, don’t you? You’ll take what you can get, whatever scraps someone will dole out to you, but this, oh this.” He trails the hilt down, tracing Crowley’s hip bones. “This is all you’ve ever wanted. To be strung up and made the focus, to be the centre of everyone’s attention. You’ve wanted this for so long, you’ve forgotten how much you desire it. How lucky for you that I’ve found you at last.”

Crowley swears. It’s not true, it’s _not._ Except that he can’t deny the pressure he can feel building in his balls, or that if anything were removed from this situation — Fell, the knife, the ropes, fuck, even the eager, hungry eyes, watching still from across the room — he wouldn’t be nearly so close to coming. “Please,” he begs again. He’s past caring now, past snark. “Please. _Please.”_

“What’s my name?” Fell asks. He’s very close now. His nose is almost touching Crowley’s, his chest is a hand's-breadth away, his soft, perfect belly is just barely brushing Crowley’s too-skinny bones. Crowley can’t see the knife but he knows it’s somewhere low. The pressure from the hilt has vanished. “What’s my name?”

“Sir!” Crowley cries.

Fell presses the hilt of the knife against his balls. He draws it up the length of Crowley’s cock.

Crowley comes so hard he sees _stars._

“Aghh!” he wails _. “Yes!”_

Fell doesn’t move the knife, holding it still while Crowley jerks and heaves. He comes for a long time and then rattles with the aftershocks against the press of the hilt. When he finally does try to pull away, sobbing, Fell whispers “Shh,” against his face and steps in closer, holding the hilt firm across Crowley’s twitching cock. “I’ve got you.” Fell buries his hand in Crowley’s hair, scratches his nails across Crowley’s scalp. “I’ve got you. It’s okay, darling. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Crowley sobs again. He buries his face in Fell’s shoulder, pressing the wetness of his eyes into the black fabric of Fell’s suit. He’s making a sopping mess but Fell doesn’t seem to mind. He holds Crowley still until the leaking finally stops, only letting go when Crowley starts to pull back on his own. “God,” Crowley says, coughing wetly, red faced and embarrassed. “Fuck. I’m— ”

“If you say ‘sorry,’” Fell warns, “I’ll cut you down right now and leave you behind.”

Crowley coughs out a laugh. It’s snotty and gross. Fuck everything, he’s a mess. Something wet seeps down the inside of his leg. “You wouldn’t.”

“You’re right,” Fell says warmly. “I wouldn’t.” He lets go of Crowley’s hair to run a hand up and down Crowley’s arms. “How are you feeling? How are your hands?”

“Ghah,” Crowley manages. His head lolls back as he looks up. He feels _amazing._ His skin tingles everywhere, but nothing hurts. “Good.”

“Good?” Fell asks. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley confirms. He smiles. He feels high. “I mean, I’m a mess, but I also feel good. Fantastic, even.”

“Good,” Fell murmurs. He runs a hand through Crowley’s hair. “That’s good.”

Behind him, the room is stirring. Fell doesn’t turn around, but Crowley can’t help but peer. Zuriel is watching them. She has a calculating look in her eye. Their gazes meet. Crowley catches his breath, unsure what to say, but then Zuriel winks. She turns around and says something to the group that captures their attention. One of the subs on the floor moves. Crowley bites his lip and looks back at Fell. 

Fell raises an eyebrow. “What was that?”

Crowley blushes. “I think we’ve made a fan.”

“Hm,” Fell says. He scrapes his nails lightly across Crowley’s scalp. “That’s what we came here to do, I suppose. What do you think? Would you like to get down now? Or would you like me to keep going?”

Crowley has to swallow. “Oh. You’re— it’s not over yet?”

Fell’s eyes are very blue. “It could be.”

Crowley’s brain skitters like a broken record. “N— no.” What would he…? What does Fell…? “That is, I’m okay. To keep going. If you want.”

“Are you sure?” Fell’s gaze is serious.

“Yes,” Crowley answers, because this was intense, this was _good,_ and he has no idea what could come after. Besides, they’ve a job to do, and the more Zuriel likes them, the better. “I am. Sir.”

“Okay, then,” Fell says. He smiles. “I know you don’t like pain and I don’t intend to really hurt you, but I’m thinking of something sharp, like a flick. Something with a very quick sting. How do you feel about that?”

“Uh,” Crowley manages. It feels like certain parts of his brain have shut off. Error, does not compute. “What?”

“Pain,” Fell says again. His hand grips the back of Crowley’s neck, steadying him. “Small amounts. Thoughts?”

“Yes,” Crowley says. Once again the word comes out before he’s meant it to, and once again, he realizes he’s completely okay with that. His body seems to know what it wants. “Please.”

“Oh, a ‘please,’” Fell teases. He runs a hand along the skin underneath Crowley’s collar. “Whoever taught you manners?”

“Fuck you,” Crowley laughs. “I’ve been begging nicely for the past five minutes.”

“That you have,” Fell agrees with a smile. “Such efforts should be rewarded.”

Crowley shivers as Fell steps back. As if that were a signal, Zuriel looks up from where she’s got her hand around a sub on the floor and nods at them. Fell, regal as a king, nods back. The attention of the room shifts back towards them. Crowley bites his bottom lip. Whoever had been on the floor is getting up again. Dresses are being smoothed back into position and more than one person is tucking themselves back into their clothes. Crowley tries to see who was on their knees but can’t: everyone is sitting back against the couches. No one on the floor meets his gaze, though several of the people on the couches do. They smile or grin. Baronet Rose smirks and tightens his hand around the sub he’s somehow acquired for the show. 

Crowley swallows. It’s a reminder of what they’re actually here for. These people, the ones wearing the collars, have been where he is now. He isn’t the first to be toyed with or strung up as an object of titillation. But no one else was given a choice. Not like he was. 

They need to bring these people down, and that means getting in. From Zuriel’s nod, they’ve at least done what was expected of them, but who knows how much farther they have to go. They’ve got to do more than make a good first impression. One display — no matter how effective — could hardly be enough to make Fell stand out from the crowd.

Fell seems to understand that. He gives Crowley one last, private smile, and then turns to face the rest of the room. “Can I have a round of applause for Tony?”

Zuriel grins and stands, leading the room in a wave of applause. “Bravo!” she cheers. “Very well done.” She turns to Fell and raises her glass. “You, too, Mr Douglas. Such an excellent display of control.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Fell says, bowing slightly. “I would like to continue, if no one has any objections?”

Zuriel glances around at the others. No one dissents. “Please,” she says, settling back into her chair. She’s the only one without a collared person at her feet now. He wonders why she didn’t grab Freddie from the bar. “Do go on.”

“Thank you,” Fell says, and then walks past Crowley towards the back wall. Crowley sucks in a breath as he remembers the matte black toys. ‘Pain,’ Fell had said. Crowley feels a shiver of concern. He can’t turn around far enough to see what Fell is selecting. What is he going to— ?

Fell walks back into Crowley’s field of view. He’s holding something in his hands that Crowley can’t quite see. Whatever it is, it makes the audience erupt into appreciative whispering. Fell turns to face Crowley and tucks whatever he has behind his back.

“Now,” Fell says loudly, his expression a tease, “I think Tony should close his eyes. Don’t you all agree?”

There’s a smattering of laughs and another round of applause. Crowley hangs from the hook and swallows. Fell looks over at him and smiles. “Would you please, my dear?”

Crowley bites his lower lip. He doesn’t know what Fell has planned but he likes the idea of hiding his eyes. Havig them on display for all of these people has been its own kind of torture, no matter how much, apparently, coming in front of a group of strangers turns him on. The past twenty-four hours have been a whirlwind of kink discoveries. “Yes, sir.”

It isn’t quite dark behind his eyelids. The warm glow of the candles and dim, recessed lights flicker just beyond what he can see. He’s used to this, though. His ears prick up, alert for every sound or creak of fabric. There’s the murmur of voices from the crowd, the soft pad of Fell’s shoes against the carpet, and then, the creak of whatever it is Fell has behind his back. 

“Now I think we should make this interesting,” Fell says. His voice is quieter, but still loud enough to be heard by the rest of the room. Crowley thinks of a stage magician. “Tony, I want you to keep your eyes closed. Every time you open them, I’m going to do this at least once more.”

“Uh,” Crowley says, unable to stop himself from asking. “Do what?”

“This,” Fell says, and then there’s the sound of something pooling on the floor. A swish. A crack. And then—

“Ah!” Crowley shouts. His eyes fly open. Fell is standing in front of him holding a _whip,_ of all things! Crowley twists to the left and looks down. On his side, in the middle of the zig-zag Fell had drawn, is a blossoming spark of pain. “What the hell?”

“Ah ah ah,” Fell admonishes. “That’s an extra strike now.” He smiles at Crowley, so kind it seems cruel. “Please close your eyes again, my dear.”

Crowley swallows. It’s on the tip of his tongue to protest, and yet the pain hadn’t been _bad._ A flick, like Fell had said. “Yes, sir,” Crowley manages, and does as he’s told. He can’t resist holding himself still, though. He’s waiting now, ears straining, belly tense, and then it comes — another swish, a crack, and then — 

“Fucking _Christ_ !” Crowley shouts. There’s another flare of pain down his other side. Somehow he manages to keep his eyes closed, but he knows without looking that it’s coming from the exact middle of the other zig-zag Fell has drawn. “Jesus _Fuck.”_

“I would appreciate if you’d keep Him out of it,” Fell says mildly. There’s a chuckle from the rest of the room. “We’re hardly His concern, after all.”

Crowley opens his mouth to retort but another _crack_ cuts him off. He yelps. There’s a flare of pain against his collarbone in the very middle, probably in the second of the three circles Fell had cut there. Crowley knows without looking that it’ll be flaring a brilliant red. He wonders what it looks like against the black of his shirt and the white of his skin, and then gasps for air at the thought. 

“Your focus is on me,” Fell says, his voice hypnotic. “I’m the only one you need to impress.”

Bloody _hell._ If Crowley hadn’t just come he’d be hard again already. “Yes, angel.”

There’s a pause. A crack. And then two more in quick succession. Three sharp bites of pain flare up Crowley’s left arm. 

“What did you just call me?” Fell asks. His voice is deceptively flat. 

Crowley bites his bottom lip. “Ah, um.” Shit. He honestly hadn’t meant to say that. “Sir?”

Another flick. Crowley’s other collar bone stings. “No,” Fell says. “That wasn’t it.” He pauses. “Though you are, of course, allowed to call me that at any time.”

“Right,” Crowley says. “Agh!” He gasps as another burst flares against the soft skin of his belly. Where— ? Oh, the circle around his belly button, right. “I — ” There’s another burst. “Ah! _Angel!_ It’s, it’s what you look like when you— Oh!” His belly again, another circle this time. “I’m sorry, it’s true!”

“My dear, sweet boy,” Fell says. He sounds close. Fuck, is he close? Crowley pours everything he has into resisting the urge to open his eyes. “Do not for a moment be sorry.” There’s a hand in his hair and then it’s trailing away again. Fell chuckles and it’s too achingly far. “We’re going to have to rob you of this habit of apologizing for everything, I see.”

“Nuuugh,” Crowley manages. Fuck it, it sounds like— When Fell puts it like that, it sounds like this could be more than just a one-thing time. “Aaa-aaaah.”

He can almost hear the smile in Fell’s voice. “I see.” There’s another quick sequence of flicks. Pain flares briefly across Crowley’s side, up at the apex of the zig-zag on his left, and down his right arm. “You don’t say.”

Crowley exhales a laugh. “Suck a dick,” he manages. He realizes too late that he’s let his eyes drift open.

“Maybe yours later,” Fell says with a grin. “Now....” He twists his wrist again. Crowley hurriedly shuts his eyes. Another pattern of starbursts explode against his skin. Not a single one has overlapped, Crowley realizes with the analytical part of his brain. Fuck it all, he’s getting hard again. Goddamn, he’s not twenty-two any more, this shouldn’t be happening. “You’re not doing very well with this keeping your eyes closed idea. I’m going to have to cut new targets soon.” There’s the sound of the whip pooling against the floor. Fell’s voice comes closer again. “You’re running out of pretty skin for me to turn red.”

Crowley’s answering barb is lost when his brain switches off at the _warm-hot-HOT_ feel of Fell’s fingers against his skin. He’s touching Crowley’s side. They’ve got skin against skin.

“Guuugh,” Crowley says. 

Fell chuckles. “Is that what you want?” He’s very, very close now. His fingertips run up the zig-zag he’s carved into Crowley’s shirt. “Do you want the knife again?”

Crowley thinks of the blade and his hips jerk.

Fell laughs. “Well,” he says, clearly fluent in Crowley, “since you asked so nicely.” He bends over to press a quick, chaste kiss against the underside of Crowley’s jaw and then steps away. There’s the faint creak of leather and then Fell’s voice is closer to his other ear. “Let’s turn you around first, my dear.”

There’s a warm, strong hand on his shoulder. Crowley instinctively presses into it and is rewarded by another familiar hand against the small of his back. He manages to keep his eyes closed as Fell stretches for the ceiling and then rotates him very carefully on the rope. “Remember,” Fell says quietly into his ear. “You know what to say to make all of this stop.”

Crowley has to lick his lips twice before he can say anything. “Yes, sir,” he manages. “I do.”

“Good boy,” Fell whispers, and the warm breath of his praise lingers long after he’s stepped away. Crowley is achingly alone for a moment and then there’s something again, the faint _snick_ of the knife being released from its sheath, and — oh shit — Crowley’s brain goes white again.

It’s not quite the floating feeling of earlier. He feels at once completely connected and very far removed from his body. His nerves are singing. His skin is on fire. And yet he exists in a place of supreme contentment, a happy good floating place. He’s being used, he’s being taken care of, he doesn’t have to do anything but give his body up and understand.

He’s not the one in charge here. 

The blade presses down again against his shirt. It whispers quietly to his skin, caressing as gently as Crowley can imagine a mother touches her child. He’s never had this before, this singularity of attention, this dual sensation of something so hard and so soft. There’s a whisper of movement and then another piece of fabric detaches itself from his shirt. Two more follow. Crowley isn’t sure what pattern Fell is drawing, but when the knife goes away and the whip comes back out, he feels the bright starbursts of pain in every centimeter Fell has revealed. 

“Please,” he finds himself saying again, though if asked he couldn’t have said what for. His head is lolling forward on his chest. “Please.” His own voice sounds heady, thick. He feels drunk though he hasn’t had so much as a sip of alcohol tonight. There’s no strength left at all in his legs and his shoulders are starting to go faintly numb. His hands might already be asleep. “Sir. Please.”

“You’re being so good,” a voice — Fell, his angel, speaking to him again — says into his ear. Crowley shivers at the warmth and the closeness of it. “So good for me.” There are two hands on him, each pressing wonderful flesh against his own fever-bright skin. Crowley shivers as every circle is caressed, every zig-zag mirrored. “What do you want, my good, good boy?”

“I — ” Crowley tries. He’s shaking now. He doesn’t know why. “I — ”

“How about this?” Fell asks. His hands circle back again, slip down Crowley’s sides, rest against Crowley’s hips. One trails forward, cupping his balls. Crowley cries out at the too-good pressure of it. He realizes that he’s fully hard again. How can he be this hard again? How much time has passed? “Do you want to come, my sweet boy?”

“I _— yes,”_ Crowley begs. He wants it so bad, he can feel tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. The embarrassment only makes him want to come _more_ , what the fuck does that say about him? _“Please.”_

“Shh,” Fell says. He strokes Crowley through his cum-soaked pants. He feels hard and gross and so ready it’s obscene. “There you go, my good sweet boy.”

Fell presses down firmly. Crowley gasps and groans. He comes again. It pulls everything he has from the very centre of him. Tingling climbs up his toes, numbness moves down his arms, pressure builds behind his balls and the whiteness flares beneath his eyes. It all converges on his centre, exploding outward even as it anchors the floating place inside his soul. He collapses forward as much as the ropes will allow. “Angel!”

“Shh,” Fell says again. He soothes him through it. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it. I’m here.”

The whiteness fades to blackness. Crowley, already on the edge of oblivion, pitches into it face-first. With no control left, and very little awareness, he falls. 

  
  



	6. Chapter Six

  
  


Crowley wakes up in a cool, dark place. He’s comfortable, stretched out on something soft and for a moment he debates just going back to bed. It must be Sunday. He never sleeps in except on Sundays.

Only the light all is wrong for Sunday. And his apartment isn’t this cool. And this  _ definitely  _ isn’t his bed… 

“Shh,” a voice says, and it’s not just memory stirring, there’s a thigh beneath his head. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

_ Oh,  _ Crowley thinks, and exhales. It’s okay. He’s safe. 

Wait.

That voice...

Fell. 

Crowley sits up suddenly. “What—?” 

Douglas. The op. The boat. 

“It’s okay,” Fell says. “Tony, it’s okay.”

Crowley exhales. Tony. Right. He scrubs his face and looks around. “Where are we?”

Fell smiles at him. He’s sitting close. “We’re safe.” 

Crowley blinks hard, willing his eyes to adjust. It takes a while. They’re clearly in some kind of room — it’s small, with little more than a door, a table, and the couch they’re sitting on. There’s a porthole set into the wall but it’s dark outside. The only source of light is a row of dim LEDs. Fell is sitting beside him, still wearing the suit and tie they’d arrived in. Crowley can feel a fleece blanket around his shoulders. 

“I’ve got water,” Fell says, and holds out a glass. 

Crowley fumbles for it. Fell gently pushes his arm aside and offers a straw instead. Crowley takes a sip and _ oh,  _ it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever tasted. 

“Careful,” Fell says, pulling the glass away. He shifts his hand to Crowley’s shoulder. “Not too fast or you’ll get sick.”

“Won’t,” Crowley croaks. 

Fell chuckles. “You can have more in just a minute.” He puts the glass down and runs a hand through Crowley’s hair. “You can have anything you like, my dear. You did so well. So very well, indeed.”

Crowley feels a warm glow at the praise. He did good. Except. What did he… ? 

Oh. 

Shit.

Crowley pales. The knife. The _ whip.  _ Fuck. Had he really been so far gone that he’d come in front of Zuriel and everyone? Twice? He shifts and feels the disgusting mess inside his pants. Oh, fuck, he had. “I— ”

“You did very well,” Fell says firmly. “Very well, indeed.” He takes his hand out of Crowley’s hair and wraps them both around Crowley’s instead. “I’m very proud of you.”

Crowley swallows. He’s trembling slightly. A combination of nerves and adrenalin, probably. He tries to tell his body to calm the fuck down. Someone who was used to undercover could probably manage it. Crowley mostly manages to make himself sick. “I… uh… ”

Fell squeezes his hands. “Zuriel gave us this space to collect ourselves. There’s water and blankets. No food, unfortunately.”

“That’s okay,” Crowley says, his stomach roiling. “I’m not hungry.” He doesn’t actually think he could eat.

Fell frowns. “Not consciously, perhaps, but your body just expended a great deal of energy. You’re going to be craving some calories soon. I’ll make sure we find some when we leave.”

_ Leave.  _ Yes, please. “Can we go soon?” 

Fell’s expression falls. “Not yet, I’m afraid. Zuriel asked us to wait here.”

“Ugh.” Crowley looks around the cabin. It’s small, not quite claustrophobic, but intimate, that’s for sure. “Where is she?”

Fell grimances. “Still out in the main room, I believe.”

Right. Crowley shivers again.

Fell looks concerned. “How are you feeling?”

Crowley doesn’t want to look at what he’s feeling. It’s… a lot. He pushes it down and looks around again. He can’t see any cameras but that doesn’t mean anything. They could be too small to see, or there could be microphones. “How are— are you? I mean, how are you feeling?” Damn, he has no idea how to act in this situation. What do you say to a man who strung you up and whipped you in front of an audience? Especially when he made you come.

_ Twice,  _ his traitorous body reminds him, and shivers for a completely different reason.

Crowley does his best to ignore that, too.

Fell smiles. “I’m okay.” He pauses. “Actually, no, that’s not quite true. I _ am  _ good, and what we did was wonderful and I enjoyed it immensely, but it’s not what I would have chosen for your first time.” He presses his lips together. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley’s already shaking his head. “No,” he insists. “It’s good. I’m fine.”

Fell looks as skeptical as he probably should be. “It was a very intense experience.”

“Yeah, it was— ” Crowley can’t seem to find the words. “Well. It _ was.” _

Fell huffs a laugh. “Yes,” he admits. “It was.” He squeezes Crowley’s hand again, and then looks down. “I’m sorry, I should have asked. Is it okay that I’m touching you? Would you like me to let go?”

Crowley realizes that his heart is pounding frantically in his chest and isn’t sure why. He feels too big and small for his body, and is irrationally convinced that something _ really bad  _ will happen if Fell lets go. “No! I mean, no. I’m… You can keep doing. That. Er. What you’re doing.” 

Fell smiles gently. “Okay.”

Crowley licks his lips and looks around again. He can’t _ see  _ any microphones. Does he—? Yeah, he still has his belt. Not that Beeze is likely getting anything at this point. Ugh, he really _ hopes  _ they aren’t. “Where is—? I mean, Zuriel. And, and the others. Where are they?”

Fell squeezes his hands again and looks concerned. Crowley realizes he's already asked that question. “They aren’t far.”

“Right.” Crowley exhales. Right. His knee bounces. “You said Zuriel was coming back, yeah? Do you know when?”

Fell looks even more concerned. “No, but I think we have a little time. I think someone else was going to be put on display after us.”

Crowley can’t help it, he flinches.

Fell immediately drops his hands and pulls him into a hug. “Oh, sweetheart, no. I’m sorry. Are you okay? Of course you’re not. I’m sorry.”

Crowley — for no goddamn reason he could name — bursts into tears.

Oh  _ no. _

“I’m sorry,” he bawls. “I— I’m fine. I’m okay. Just— ”

“Shh, shh,” Fell smoothes. He runs strong hands up and down Crowley’s spine. “It’s okay. Well, it’s— ” he blows out a breath. “The situation is not okay, but _ you’re  _ okay. We’re going to make it okay. It’s alright.”

Crowley can’t do anything but hug him back and cry harder.

Fell holds him. “It’s okay,” he murmurs again. “I’m here.”

“I know that, I _ know  _ that,” Crowley sobs. “I don’t know why I’m— ”

“You’ve been paraded around on a leash, my boy,” Fell says, not without humour. “And then strung up by your arms, stripped — in a manner of speaking — and whipped. And you enjoyed it. That’s rather a lot to take in.”

“I— ” Crowley coughs. “I _ did  _ enjoy it. I let you do everything. Worse, I _ wanted  _ you to.”

“I know,” Fell says. He sounds kind and not the least bit judgemental. “I know you did.” He pauses. “What about that bothers you?”

“I— ? What _ bothers  _ me?” Crowley pulls back to stare at Fell.

“Yes,” Fell says evenly.

Crowley groans. “I— I don’t know.”

“Think, my darling.” Fell’s voice is gentle. “This is important.”

Crowley rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Like, specifically?” He thinks back to the room. “I don’t know, that it was weird? And invasive?” He stops. “And… and hot? I mean,” he swallows, “the worst part is that I liked it. Not the pain or the knife or the rope — fuck, I knew I was messed up like that, or I could have guessed, at least — but the fact that everyone was, well, watching.” He swallows again. “I liked that. I wanted that.” He shudders. “I want it again.” 

Fell turns and presses a kiss into his hair. “I understand. That’s perfectly normal, sweetheart, for several reasons. You might be an exhibitionist. It’s perfectly alright if that were true, you wouldn’t be the first on this earth, I assure you. It could also have been the situation. In that room, with those people, you had no choice but to go along with it, didn’t you? I bet it saved you a lot of thought.”

“Oh,” Crowley says. His shoulders come down slightly. “Huh. Maybe, I guess. You mean not having a choice might’ve made it easier to, uh, not actually have a choice?”

Fell smiles into his temple. “That’s an articulate way to put it.” 

“Nice,” Crowley grouses, “tease the traumatized one, why don’t you?” Fell’s fingers tighten in his hair. “Kidding!” Crowley says, too quickly. He looks up and meets Fell’s eyes. They’ve gone tight. “I’m just kidding. I’m fine.”

Fell purses his lips. “You aren’t,” he says. “In that situation it _ was  _ hard to say no. You did a very good job of communicating with me,” he hugs Crowley closer. “I know you did, and I’m very proud of you for it, but I should have protected you better. I should have done more.”

“I honestly don’t think there was anything more you could have done,” Crowley admits, “and you did a good job communicating with me, too. You made me feel like I had a little bit of control. I— That was— ” He shudders. “You’re right, it was intense. Really intense. But good, like I said. And you did try to warn me.”

Fell makes a face. It’s absurdly cute. “Maybe,” he says, and strokes a hand down Crowley’s back. “What were the good parts, though? The actual good parts that you really enjoyed.”

Crowley’s entire face goes red. “Uh. The— ” He swallows. “Do we really need to talk about it?”

“Yes, my dear.” Fell pets him again. “We really do.”

Crowley looks around the room again. He _ still  _ can’t see any microphones. “Here?”

Fell gets a funny look on his face. “Oddly? Yes.”

“Blah,” Crowley says. “Fine.” He turns and buries his head in Fell’s shoulder. “I liked the, um, the knife part. Obviously.” His voice is coming out muffled, but at least his face is hidden. He could fry an egg on his cheeks, he swears to God. “And. The other thing. That was good, too.”

“The whip?”

It is physically impossible for him to get hard right now. That doesn’t stop his cock from trying. “Yeah.”

Fell pulls back enough that he can look at Crowley. “You’ve never been whipped before.” 

Was it that obvious? They hadn’t gone into that much detail when talking about past experience. “No.” He clears his throat, trying to regain some measure of control. “And, honestly, I don’t think that counts. That was hardly a whipping, sir. More like a tickle.”

Fell tips his head back and laughs. It sounds like music, again. Like a bell. An angel, indeed. “Is that so?”

“Yeah.” He resettles himself on Fell’s shoulder. “I could take more next time.”

Fell goes still. Crowley can feel him swallow. “Oh?”

Crowley bites his lower lip. He darts a glance up at Fell and then away. “Uhh…”

Fell smiles. It breaks the moment. There’s air in the room again and Fell hugs him closer. “More, then. I’ll keep that in mind.” He gives Crowley a minute. “What were the things you didn’t like? Not just bothered you, but that you actually wouldn’t want to do again?”

“Ugh,” Crowley groans. “I dunno. I wouldn’t have thought being tied up like that would be hot but it really worked for me. Maybe we could try without the crowds — uh — next time. See how it goes.”

Fell kisses his temple. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Okay,” Crowley says. He doesn’t want to ask, but dammit if he really wants to know. “I did okay, though?”

Fell hugs him close. “You did beautifully, my dear. You were perfect, truly.”

Crowley manages to scoff. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“No,” Fell says, and Crowley can’t see his face but it sounds like he’s smiling. “I really don’t.”

Crowley squirms but manages, by some miracle, not to die. “‘K,” he mumbles, turning his head and closing his eyes. “Can I have some more of that water now?”

Fell chuckles but lets him go enough to reach for the glass. Crowley sighs and lets him. This feels good. Really good. He’s always liked sex and he’s no stranger to things getting rough, but this, well. It feels nice just to sit like this, to be held. He probably shouldn’t get used to it. He’s a little afraid he already has.

“Here you go,” Fell says. He has the glass of water in his hand.

Crowley shakes himself and pulls away from Fell. Sweetheart time is over. They’re professionals, they’re doing a job, he can’t spend the entire night a puddle in this guy’s arms no matter how nice that sounds. _ Nice.  _ Crowley makes a face. He’s a hard bitten London police detective. He isn’t supposed to want nice.

“I can do it,” Crowley says, and reaches for the glass. Fell raises an eye at the shift in tone but hands it to him. “How did we get here, anyway?” He frowns and looks down at himself. He feels disgusting. “I didn’t walk.”

“No,” Fell says. He sounds amused again. “I carried you.”

Crowley looks over at him. He remembers when Fell had pulled him onto his lap, the strength in those solid, sturdy arms. He looks at them now and feels as though the breath has been punched out of him. “Yeah,” he manages. He feels slightly faint. “Okay.”

Fell chuckles. He looks around the room and then sighs. “I’m sorry, though, that I couldn’t do more for you. Usually I like to have food waiting. Nothing heavy, just some nibbles, but I find it grounding after a scene. I’m sure you want to get out of those clothes, too.” He frowns. “There isn’t even a sink in here.”

Crowley huffs a sigh. “Yeah, well, not your fault.” He raises his arms over his head and stretches. He does feel gross, but he’ll live. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not fine. Nothing about this is fine.” His tone has shifted. He’s pressing his lips together. “I should have made sure the accommodations were sufficient. I should have— ” 

“Whoa, hey, it’s okay,” Crowley says. Fell’s gone still and upset, his mouth a tight line. “I’ve already said I’m okay.”

“I know, but— ” 

“I didn’t ask how _ you  _ felt this,” Crowley interrupts. He scoots a little closer to Fell. “We’ve done a lot here today. What did you like about it?”

Fell huffs out a breath. “I see what you’re doing.”

Crowley grins. “So? Answer the question, angel.”

Fell rolls his eyes but picks up Crowley’s hand and rubs his thumb over Crowley’s palm. “I liked being able to take care of you,” he confesses. “I love that part, especially with a new partner. Reading what you like, testing it, rewarding you with more.” His voice goes quiet. “I liked taking you apart.”

Crowley shivers. “Yeah,” he says, and forces himself to swallow. “Um. What did you not like about it?”

The light in Fell’s eyes dims. “I don’t like not having control of the situation,” he admits. “If we’d been at home I would have had towels ready. I would have untied you and picked you up and carried you immediately to the shower. I would have taken your clothes off and laid you in the tub, run a bubble bath for you and then gotten the massage oil out.” His touch turns firm, pressing into the meat of Crowley’s hand. “You must be getting stiff by now. I would have prevented that.”

“Oh,” Crowley says. It’s getting hard to breathe again. “Yeah. Okay. That — ” He coughs, “ — that sounds good. Put that on the list for next time, too.”

Fell smiles, the ghost of his previous good humour on his face. “Yes?”

“Uh huh.” Crowley gives into temptation and presses closer to his angel. What the hell, this is for Fell’s benefit, right? Not for his. “I think it sounds… ” Don’t say nice, don’t say nice, don’t say nice, “... nice.” 

Dammit. 

“Good,” Fell says, and smiles. There’s something hesitant in it, though. He reaches out, swallows, and then stops, his hand hanging in the air. “Can I— ?”

Crowley bites his lip. “What?” 

“Can I hug you?” 

Crowley exhales. “Yeah.” 

Fell doesn’t hesitate, just raises his arms and wraps them around Crowley. Crowley moves into his embrace, but it’s clearly not enough for Fell, because he reaches over and picks Crowley up. 

Crowley lets out a surprised “Oof!” as Fell deposits him squarely on his lap, his legs thrown out on either side of Fell’s thighs. He tenses for a second, but it feels wonderful, so Crowley gives in and surrenders. He falls forward onto Fell’s chest. Bloody hell, that feels even _ better.  _ Fuck. He’s done for now. “Nnngg.” 

Fell squeezes him. “Okay?”

“Nnm,” Crowley manages. He doesn’t have the words to say that it’s good, it’s too good, he’s going to die when he’s no longer allowed to have this, but it’s for Fell. Fell needs this and Crowley can give it to him. After everything Fell’s done for him, he can do this for Fell. “Angel.”

Fell pulls him just that little bit closer. He starts rubbing his palms up and down Crowley’s spine. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “We should have talked much more about what was going to happen. I didn’t think it would be quite that intense. I wanted to keep you safe, wanted to make sure no one else would touch you. I did whatever I thought would accomplish that and also make a good first impression on the group.”

“I know,” Crowley whispers back. He realizes now that Fell had been scared — he’d never have seen it before, he’d thought the man was supremely confident and in control — but he must have been terrified. “You did wonderfully. They loved you, they did, and I, well.” He clears his throat. “I’ve already said that I liked it.”

“Yes,” Fell exhales, “I know you have. Thank you for that. I simply wish— I’ve never seen anyone so— You were perfect, sweetheart. Absolutely amazing. And it was so hard not to give myself over to it entirely, to give myself over to _ you,  _ to do everything I could to wreck you, to give you what you wanted and damn anyone who was watching.”

“Oh.” Crowley manages to keep most of the sound he wants to make under his tongue. “That was— that was you holding back?” He tries to pull himself closer to Fell but can’t. There’s no space at all left between them. God, he wants this man under his _ skin. “ _ You can make it even better?” 

“My dear boy,” Fell breathes into his ear. “I can make you _ scream.” _

“Nuuuuugh,” Crowley manages.

Fell chuckles. He runs his hand through Crowley’s hair. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I should be trying to calm you down, not rile you up.”

“Blah,” Crowley says. “I shouldn’t be able to get riled up any more. I’m in my forties, for fuck’s sake.” 

He can feel Fell’s smile against his cheek. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Crowley _ really  _ should not be getting hard again. He’s going to pay for this tomorrow. “Christ.”

Fell laughs. “Dear boy,” he says, and lifts a hand to touch Crowley’s cheek.

And that’s when Zuriel walks in.

“Hello, Mr Douglas, I just wanted to check— oh.” Zuriel stops, her hand on the door. She smiles conspiratorially at Fell. “I’m sorry, maybe I should have given you both a little more time.”

“Ms DeAnge,” Fell says smoothly. His arms tighten around Crowley.

Crowley squirms but doesn’t move away. Instead he looks up and studies Fell’s face. Now that he’s watching for it, he can see the way Fell’s smile smoothes over. Is this what Fell looks like when he’s scared? Or is this just him on the job? “We appreciate the hospitality you’ve shown us. Are we intruding? It must be getting late.”

“It is, but it doesn’t follow that you’re unwelcome,” Zuriel says, stepping more fully into the room. She’s wearing the same dress as earlier. Crowley wonders how much time has actually passed. “I did have a few more people I wanted to introduce you to but after you’d be more than welcome to remain on board. In fact,” her eyes glitter, “I have been instructed to extend a much longer invitation.”

Crowley tenses. What does that mean? But Fell never falters. “Oh?” He sounds politely confused. Damn, he’s good. “The yacht is lovely, of course, but I’m not sure— ”

“Oh no, not here,” Zuriel interrupts. She waves a hand. “No, the boat is fine for meetings but for longer, protracted stays? Of course not. For that we need someplace we can — ” her grin widens “ — relax.”

Fell runs a hand down Crowley’s spine. “Indeed.”

Zuriel’s eyes track the movement. “Yes,” she says, licking her lips, “and it just so happens that the… organization… you are now a part of owns a large, private, quite _ isolated  _ island off the coast of Sicily. A helicopter will be arriving within the hour to transport me to a private jet and from there to the island. You and Tony have been invited to join me, if you like.”

Crowley tenses. This is good, this is exactly what they were hoping for, but so soon? 

“Hm,” Fell says. He’s frowning slightly, it would do no good to appear too eager, Crowley supposes, and yet there’s no way they can say no, is there? “I can’t deny that an island getaway sounds lovely right about now — terrible weather we’ve been having — but I cannot be away from my business for a protracted period of time.”

“Of course not, and it would hardly be protracted,” Zuriel scoffs. “A weekend at most. It’s, what, Friday? I’ll be returning to London on Sunday afternoon, Monday morning at very least. Do come. It’s not often we invite other members and I could do with a little,” her eyes glitter as she looks at Crowley, “distraction.”

“I don’t know,” Fell says. He’s looking at Crowley, too. Crowley can see the worry in his eyes. Fell had promised his protection, had told Crowley he would get them out if Crowley said he wanted to go. He’d have found some way to manage on a boat, Crowley’s sure, but on an island? They’d be stuck there. And yet the job hasn’t changed. They need to nail these people. Going to the top is the right way to do that and if Fell’s performance has managed to get them that kind of attention already, well, that’s good. “Perhaps Tony should stay behind.”

“No, no,” Zuriel protests, “absolutely not. It’s a joint invitation, you see.”

Crowley comes to a decision. He’s never been good at playing it safe and there’s no way in hell he’s going to let Fell go deeper undercover without him. “Please, sir,” he says, stressing the title slightly. “You know I hate the cold. London is shit this time of year. Sicily sounds nice.”

Fell stares into his eyes for a moment. Crowley can read the question there. He presses his shoulder into Fell’s chest as confirmation. He’s okay with this. He’s fine to keep going. Beeze is going to kill him but, well, they were going to do that anyway. 

“Very well,” Fell says finally. His fingers clench slightly around Crowley’s arm before releasing. “We can always use a vacation, and at least it’ll be warm.”

Zuriel laughs. “Warm, yes, it will be warm, certainly.” Her eyes glitter maliciously in the dim light.

“Hm,” Fell says. “Yes.” He looks down at his suit. “Will there be time to stop for a quick change of clothes?”

“No, sorry,” Zuriel says, not sounding sorry at all, “the helicopter is already scheduled, but have no fear, we’ll have everything you need on site.” Her smile sharpens as she looks at Crowley.  _ “Everything  _ you’ll need.”

“Excellent,” Fell says. He shifts Crowley off his lap gently and reaches back for — oh great — the leash still attached to Crowley’s collar. Crowley makes a face as Fell winds it lightly around his hand. 

Zuriel laughs. “You like them spirited, don’t you?”

Fell offers Crowley a hand up. “I like him mine,” Fell counters. He gestures to the door. “Lead on, Ms DeAnge.”

  
  


*

  
  


The next hour is uncomfortable. Crowley is quick to realize that he’s exhausted. He keeps active — Anathema introduced him to running and eugh, it’s awful, but at least it quiets the mess inside his head — but he’s put his body through a lot in the past twenty four hours. He starts off okay and yet by the third conversation Fell is having at Zuriel’s elbow, it’s all he can do to stay upright. Thankfully, the people they’re talking to are ones Crowley recognizes. Fell doesn’t need help to keep his persona of Douglas intact and the man can memorize names well enough on his own.

Crowley’s not just exhausted, either. Fell had been right, he _ is  _ getting sore. His shoulders hadn’t been bad when he first woke up but they're starting to stiffen. Everything is incredibly gross on the inside of his pants. Wetness had seeped down the seam for a while and then got really sticky and now it’s dry and flaky and awful. He’d give anything to be able to take off his clothes and shower but Zuriel pays no notice as he stumbles along behind them.

Fell does notice, but there’s not much he can do about it. He puts his hand on the small of Crowley’s back. It helps. That single point of contact provides an anchor when Crowley starts to drift away again. During the fourth conversation, though, when Crowley subtly tries to roll his shoulders, Fell’s lips purse. When the woman finally steps away, Fell puts his arm out. 

Crowley sags into it gratefully. It feels like Fell’s half holding him up. 

“I’ve got you, Tony,” Fell says. He turns to Zuriel and his expression is firm. “I think we’re done here, are we not Ms DeAnge? Your hour is almost up, surely.”

“So it is, so it is,” Zuriel breezes, so easily that Crowley wonders if this were some kind of a test. He wonders if they passed. “We’re nearly back to the marina, too. Let’s go back up to the top deck and wait for the others to disembark.”

“After you,” Fell says. He waits for Zuriel to get a few steps ahead and then tugs on Crowley’s shoulder. “Only a little longer, my dear. You can rest at my feet when we get to the top if you like.”

Crowley hardly has the strength left to nod. He bends his focus to getting up the stairs one step at a time. 

Finally they reach the top deck. Fell walks Crowley to the nearest seat with one hand on his elbow. When they get there, Fell sinks down into the couch and Crowley collapses into a boneless heap at Fell’s feet. He’s too tired to feel anything but relief as he leans his head against the side of Fell’s knees and closes his eyes. It takes everything he has not to fall instantly asleep.

“That’s it, my dear,” Fell says, reaching down to card a hand through his hair. “Rest now. You’re right, Ms DeAnge, I can see the marina from here. When will the helicopter arrive?”

“In fifteen minutes or so,” Zuriel promises. “It’s a small EC eurocopter. It’ll land at the marina.”

Fell says something in reply to that. Crowley has no idea what. Everything feels very fuzzy and far away. He might actually fall asleep. 

He rouses when Fell touches his shoulder. He blinks awake and looks up. “Tony?” Fell asks. “Are you awake? It’s time to get up now.”

“Nuugh,” Crowley protests, but he struggles to his feet. Oh god, he feels disgusting. “Shower?”

Zuriel laughs. She’s leading them forward, the deck is empty and — huh — there’s a helicopter sitting in the parking lot of the marina. Crowley realizes belatedly that they’re near enough now for his belt to be transmitting to Beeze again. He wonders if Fell has managed to let them know where they’re going. “Not on the helicopter, I’m afraid, but there is a private bathroom on the jet.”

Fell says something that’s lost in the roar of the helicopter as it starts. Zuriel leads the way down the stairs and across the deck. They follow her off the boat and onto the dock, where Zuriel strides towards the helicopter as if she rides in them all the time. Crowley tries to follow as nonchalantly as he can but can’t help but duck unnecessarily as they walk under the rotary blades. Zuriel glances over her shoulder at him and grins. Despite his exhaustion, Crowley grins back. He feels a thrill. He’s never actually been up in a helicopter before.

“Strap in,” Zuriel tells them, yelling to be heard over the blades. “It’s a noisy ride, but at least it’ll be quick.”

Crowley fumbles with the buckle. Fell reaches over to help him, patting his thigh after, and then shifting to see to his own safety belt. There’s a sickening lurch and then the helicopter begins to rise. Crowley does his best to keep the dopey smile off his face.

He’s clearly unsuccessful because Zuriel is still grinning at him. Crowley blushes and turns instead to stare out at the incredible view. It’s amazing. London looks like an ant’s playground from up here.

Too soon, they land at a private airstrip just outside of the city. Zuriel leads them off the helicopter and towards the waiting plane. Crowley has, unsurprisingly, also never been on a private jet before. He clenches his jaw to keep it from falling open as they step inside the cream coloured paradise. 

“What lovely furniture,” Fell says. He’s looking around with a cool, unimpressed stare. Crowley struggles to emulate it. The interior of the plane is decadent, with long, low, soft-looking couches, a fully stocked bar, and a door leading to what he assumes is the pilot’s area. There’s another door in the back. Crowley hopes it leads to the bathroom Zuriel had mentioned. 

“It’s enough to suffice,” Zuriel says, and makes them sit down and strap in for the take-off. This time Crowley is able to do the belt himself — he _ has  _ flown before, even if it wasn’t in such luxury as this — and he braces himself for the free-fall sensation as they lift off. 

Finally, they’re in the air. London has fallen away beneath them and Zuriel gestures to the backroom of the plane. “The bathroom is through there, gentlemen. Our flight will be just over two hours, so take your time.”

“Thank you,” Fell says, and inclines his head. He rises to his feet and holds a hand out for Crowley. “Tony?”

“Yes, please,” Crowley says, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. He’s never going to come in his pants ever again, he doesn’t care what promises Fell makes. “Lead the way.”

Fell smiles and does, that goddamn leash still in his hand. Crowley follows him. The moment the door is closed he heaves a sigh and has to catch himself when his knees wobble. “God, get my pants off of me, _ please.” _

Fell grins. “I have to admit, that’s not quite the way I had imagined you uttering those particular words.”

Crowley considers flipping him the bird but decides he’s too tired. “Fuck you,” he says instead, reaching down to undo his belt. “Next time unbutton my pants and flash my dick in front of everyone, I don’t care, anything would be better than _ this.” _

“I thought we said next time we’d avoid the crowds,” Fells says lightly. His eyes follow Crowley’s hands down to his belt.

“Sure,” Crowley says, groaning with relief when he’s finally able to get the belt undone, “but I doubt I’m going to pass the entire trip unmolested. Zuriel looks like she’s going to start drooling at the sight of me.”

Fell makes a face. He holds out his hand for Crowley’s belt and then steps forward to help him shimmy out of his pants. “Yes, I’m afraid we put on too good of a show. Still, a weekend away sounds lovely. I’ve already contacted the necessary people and everything will be fine while we’re gone. You shouldn’t worry about that, Tony.”

“All the necessary people, sir?” Crowley asks, flicking a glance at his belt and then around the bathroom as he does. He hadn’t _ forgotten  _ there could be listening devices, but the ‘Tony’ had been a good reminder. “What if something happens while we’re gone?” What if Zuriel finds out that Douglas got arrested and we get made, he worries but doesn’t say.

“It’ll be fine,” Fell says. “I’ve talked to everybody.” He tugs Crowley’s pants down his legs and winces when they hardly move. “Sorry, my dear, this won’t be comfortable.”

“No kidding,” Crowley groans. They manage to peel the offending clothes off his body eventually. He shucks his shirt immediately after, then realizes he’s standing in a bathroom naked. “Err.”

Fell laughs and steps forward. “One more thing, my dear, and then I’ll leave you to your shower.” He reaches behind Crowley’s neck and unclips the leash. “There.”

Crowley coughs to cover up how flustered he feels at having Fell so close. Jesus, he’d have thought he’d be used to it by now “I gotta keep the collar on, right?”

“Yes,” Fell says, leaning back but not before running one finger across Crowley’s throat. “You’re mine now.”

“Ghuh,” Crowley says, before he can stop himself. Fuck it all, he’s getting hard again. “Right.”

Fell chuckles and steps back. “Go on, shower. I’ll wait with Ms DeAnge in the front.” He tucks the leash and belt under his arm and reaches for the door handle before pausing. “Tony,” he says, voice heavy on the name in a way that makes Crowley sure he would have rather said ‘Crowley’ given half the chance, “thank you for pushing to come with me. I admit that it’ll be nice to have you here.”

Crowley manages a waggle of his eyebrows. “Addicted to me already, are you? Knew that’d be the case.”

Fell laughs. “You really are a brat,” he says, but he’s grinning. “Alright, shower first. I’ll go find you some clean clothes.”

He steps out. Crowley glances at the door and isn’t surprised to find there’s no lock. He shrugs and steps over his pants — maybe someone will have the foresight to burn them — and pulls on the tap for the shower.

The water is heavenly, hot with good pressure, three nozzles that line up in a row. Crowley groans and melts into it. God, it feels so good. He’d take a bucket of lukewarm water, but this, oh this is perfect. He’s never going to leave. 

Someone does open the door after several minutes. “It’s just me,” Fell calls out. Crowley looks around the glass divide and sees his arm dropping a bunch of folded clothes onto the floor. “Ms DeAnge lent us each a change of clothes. These are yours. Let me know if anything doesn’t fit right.”

“Will do,” Crowley calls back, and grins when Fell’s eyes dart to the obscured sight of Crowley naked behind the divider. Fell coughs and closes the door after that, and Crowley snickers as he ducks his head back under the spray.

He doesn’t linger in the shower after that. Fell will want to use the bathroom himself to change and as lovely as this is his stomach is starting to growl. He dries himself with one of the huge, fluffy towels and wonders idly if this is how rich people live. Too bad the money for it comes from human trafficking. 

The clothes fit well — too well, in fact. It’s slightly creepy. The pants are a loose cotton tied at the waist with string, but perfectly sized so they don’t drag on the floor. The undershirt is relaxed and there’s a button up that’s clearly meant to go over it. Crowley slings that over his shoulder. He opens the door to the bathroom and peers out. “Sir?”

No one answers. Crowley leaves the bathroom door propped open behind him, his dirty clothes wrapped in a towel and held in his hand. He doubts he’s going to find a laundry bag around here. Maybe he should throw them into a corner?

“Tony! Right this way, here we are.” Zuriel is walking up the plane towards him. “Leave your things on that chair, that’s right, we’ll have someone clean them up after. Mr Douglas is just this way.” She leads Crowley up to the front of the plane. They’re the only three on board, plus the pilots, he assumes, and Fell is easy to see, sitting on one of the low, beige sofas near the bar.

“Hey, sir,” Crowley says, giving into instinct and sliding to his knees at Fell’s feet. He hears Zuriel’s approving hum but doesn’t look away from Fell. “Shower’s all yours, if you want it.”

“In a minute,” Fell says, running a hand through Crowley’s hair. “How are you feeling? Are you very sore?”

Crowley shakes his head. The shower had done wonders. “I’m good.”

“You’re going to crash in about half an hour, aren’t you?” Fell quirks a smile.

Crowley can’t resist smiling back. “If that. Twenty minutes, tops.”

Fell chuckles. “Alright, then, at least eat something first. Zuriel has promised there’ll be a full brunch when we arrive, Sicily is about an hour ahead of us, but we have croissants, yogurt, and muffins for now.” He passes Crowley a platter from the bar. 

Crowley hums approvingly and chooses a muffin. It’s carrot and delicious, with rich, fluffy cream, and he devours it in two bites. “Hm?” he asks with his mouth still full, realizing Fell is staring at him. He chews self consciously. “What?”

Fell’s cheeks are pink. He says nothing and looks away. Zuriel laughs. “No gag reflex,” she says, and winks. “Very nice.”

Crowley ducks his head. He can feel himself blushing. Fell huffs something under his breath and runs a hand through Crowley’s hair, then stands. “I’m off to the shower now. Tony, why don’t you lie down and close your eyes for a couple of minutes?”

Crowley finishes swallowing and nods. He shifts up to the couch as Fell leaves. It’s still warm from his body heat and Crowley hums, stretching out on its length. 

“I can’t decide if you’re more serpent or cat,” Zuriel says idly as the door down the hall clicks shut. 

Crowley glances away. He can hear the smile in her voice. “Me? I’m nobody.”

Zuriel hums. “Isn’t that true of us all?” She shifts to her feet and stands. She takes a step and Crowley tenses, worried that she’s going to approach him, but she only shoots him a grin. “Don’t worry about your safety here, Tony. You’re under your master’s protection.” She walks towards the bar. “You’re safe.”

Crowley licks his lips. Is he just supposed to believe her? “Okay.”

Zuriel’s grin becomes co-conspiratorial. “Okay,” she agrees. She hits a button and the overhead lights dim. “Sleep.”

Crowley doesn’t, not really. He does close his eyes and drift, though. Eventually Fell comes back, wearing white and smelling clean. Crowley makes room for him on the couch. Fell shifts Crowley’s head onto his thigh, puts his hand in Crowley’s hair, and then Crowley really does feel safe. Closing his eyes, he sleeps.

  
  
  



	7. Chapter Seven

  
  


Crowley wakes as the plane starts to descend.

“Up now,” Fell is saying, his hands on Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley realizes he’s being shifted to a chair. “I’ve got to get your seatbelt on.”

“Nuugh,” Crowley mumbles, blinking himself awake. He hasn’t slept long — an hour and a half judging by the grit in his eyes — but it’ll be enough. He learned to take what he could get long before he earned his detective’s badge. “Are we there yet?”

Fell smiles down at him. “Almost. How are you feeling?”

“Not bad,” Crowley admits. He shifts his shoulders. His arms feel tight and his thighs, for some reason, ache, but he’s so much cleaner than he was the last time he woke up. “Better for having showered.”

“I’m sure,” Fell chuckles. He sits down in his own chair. “There’ll be time to rest again when we land.” He glances over at Zuriel. “Unless we’re on a schedule?”

Zuriel waves an airy hand. She’s changed out of her fancy dress into something that looks equally expensive, though a lot more comfortable. It’s a cotton weave that falls around her in loose waves. She still has her diamond necklace on and her hair done up. Somehow the combination works. “Oh no, nothing like that. There’s no one on _ Heaven’s Gate  _ at the moment, you’ll be the first guests we’ve had in weeks. There’ll be brunch, like I said, and then you should both feel free to avail yourselves of the amenities. We have spa facilities, several pools, beautiful beaches, and, of course, your room. I should warn you, however, that we keep minimal staff. Only the most trusted of individuals are permitted to take up residence on the island.”

Crowley bites his lower lip. Everyone they’re going to meet is going to be a victim of human smuggling, aren’t they? These won’t be paid servers who get to go home at the end of the day. How deep does someone have to be indebted to the organization before they become ‘trusted’? How long has this group been in operation, anyway? 

“Security is paramount, of course, but I trust there will be enough staff to see to our needs,” Fell says. “I am not accustomed to washing my own shorts.”

Zuriel laughs. “Hardly! No, we have enough staff to be comfortable.” She looks at Crowley. “Though I suppose Tony could dust the furniture, if pressed.”

The corner of Fell’s mouth lifts. “I prefer his attentions be focused elsewhere.” 

“Hmm.” Zuriel’s gaze turns wicked. “I think he would look dashing as a maid, myself.”

“I suspect there is very little Tony would _ not  _ look good as,” Fell says dryly. 

Zuriel grins. “You know how to pick them, Mr Douglas.”

Fell inclines his head. “Thank you. Will such services be required, then? I daresay we can find a uniform that fits him.”

Zuriel laughs. “No, but I’ll have one sent to your room when we arrive anyway.”

“I look forward to it,” Fell murmurs. “Why such a small staff, though? Surely you have ways of enforcing security.”

“We do,” Zuriel agrees, “but we do not like our people to be idle. It’s a small island. We do not host more than ten at a time.”

Fell raises an eyebrow. “So few?”

Zuriel shrugs. “This is a very _ private  _ island and our staff is _ heavily  _ curated. They are each indispensable.”

Fell looks curious. Zuriel leans forward. “Yes, your stay here comes with stipulations. We will not tolerate any attention towards our people. Tony is yours, you may do with him as you wish, but those you meet on _ Heaven’s Gate  _ are not to be interfered with.” She smiles suddenly. “Not that I think such a thing will be an issue.”

“Ah,” Fell says, nodding. “I see.”

Crowley blinks and looks between them. “I don’t.”

Zuriel smiles. “Tony, how do you think Baronet Rose would react if I informed him the members of our staff were off limits? Or Judge Wilkins?”

Crowley winces.

“Exactly. We do not extend this invitation lightly. Mr Douglas’s performance last evening was wonderful, but what was _ truly  _ exceptional was the care he showed towards you throughout. Such a thing is not often found at this level in our line of work.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, and looks at Fell. “I guess I got lucky, then.”

“You did,” Zuriel agrees. She looks at his collar pointedly. “Never forget that.”

Crowley swallows. He touches the collar. He’d forgotten it was even there, honestly. Less than twenty-four hours and it already feels completely natural.

Which is… kind of freaky. But Fell _ isn’t  _ Douglas and the collar is there by choice. It’s just for the op. He can give it back the moment they’re finished.

If he wants to. 

He shakes his head. That’s a problem for future Crowley. _ Present  _ Crowley needs to remember that he’s undercover. He manages to smile at Zuriel. “I won’t forget.”

Zuriel looks satisfied and leans back in her chair. The plane banks as it starts to descend. Crowley glances out the window and sees an island — it’s not huge, maybe, but it’s hardly small. He can see several pools and an airstrip. 

Crowley rolls his eyes. Rich people. Still, he wasn’t lying to Fell, he _ hates  _ the cold. A weekend on a near-tropical island sounds wonderful. He just has to keep it together long enough to do what they came here to do. 

So: undercover. That means keeping his mouth shut, his eyes open, and doing what Fell tells him to do. He can do that, right? The echo of Beeze laughs in his ear. Okay, he can do that _ last  _ bit, at least.

_ Too well,  _ some part of his brain reminds him.

Crowley tells that part to shut up. 

The plane hits a patch of turbulence as it descends. Crowley closes his eyes and grips the armrests. Ugh. Maybe this is why he never goes anywhere. A touch on his arm makes him look over. Fell is watching him. When Crowley meets his eyes, Fell smiles. He extends a hand and offers it palm-up.

Crowley stares. He really is an angel. 

_ This is why you’re gone on him,  _ his brain points out. _ It’s not going to get better, either. You’re going to be totally fucked by the time Monday rolls around. _

_ Seriously,  _ Crowley tells that part of himself. _ Shut up. _

He takes Fell’s hand and holds it. It helps. The plane finally coasts to a stop. There’s no clapping like there’s been on the few commercial flights he’s taken. Zuriel just undoes her seat belt and stands. There’s a muffled sound from outside and then the door hatch pops open. An attendant sticks his head in. “Ma’am?”

“Hello, Joseph, thank you for coming. This is Mr Douglas and his associate, Tony. We’ll be taking them right to brunch.” She turns to them with a smile. “This way, gentlemen.”

Fell nods and let’s go of Crowley’s hand, rising from the chair. Crowley undoes his seatbelt and follows. Instinct has him walking as close to Fell as he would have if he were still on a leash. Fell glances at him in surprise. He looks pleased. Crowley’s stomach turns over. 

So, so fucked.

The island is stunning. Warm air greets them as soon as they step off the plane. The salty breeze lifts Crowley’s hair as he looks over the crisp white beaches, endless blue sky, and tall palm trees. A well-trimmed path leads to a picture-perfect building with stucco walls and a red tile roof. There aren’t a lot of other buildings — he can see three from where he is — but every one is just as well kept. Several pools wind their way around the property. Zuriel leads the way towards one of them. A small bridge vaults over the clear water.

A woman is waiting for them on the other side of it. She’s younger than Crowley, probably in her mid-thirties, and almost paler than he is. Her voice has an Irish lilt.

“Welcome back, Ms Zuriel. Brunch is being served in the courtyard as you instructed.”

“Thank you, Loisin,” Zuriel says. “Did the problem with Mikela get worked out?”

“Oh, yes ma’am,” Loisin says. She’s smiling, and it’s a _ real  _ smile. Crowley feels his stomach sink. “She got on the phone and the workman talked her through it. The washers and dryers are all up and running again.”

Zuriel grins. “She’s turning into a regular electrician, our ‘Ela.”

“That she is, ma’am,” Loisin says, grinning back. “Proud as punch she is about it, too.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Zuriel says, turning back to Crowley and Fell. “Allow me to introduce our guests. Mr Douglas, this is Loisin, she’s head of the staff here. Loisin, this is Mr Douglas, one of our associates. Tony is accompanying him today.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Loisin says. She bows. 

Crowley stares at her. He can see a collar around her throat. It’s leather and it looks comfortable, not too tight or too loose, but it’s very clearly a _ collar.  _ There’s even a plate on it with a name Crowley can’t make out. It doesn’t seem to bother her. She’s wearing what looks almost like a hotel-like uniform, and the collar sits just beneath the neckband of it. 

So she’s clearly a victim. But she’s not _ acting  _ like one. She’s smiling. She looks happy to see Zuriel. In fact, she reminds Crowley a little of Freddie back on the boat. 

Shit.

This isn’t a complication he’d imagined. He’d naively assumed that anyone they rescued from human trafficking would be grateful. Thrilled to have a way out. But Loisin, Freddie, and probably everyone else on this island, they’ve been… brainwashed. Fed the crazy juice. Dragged so far into Zuriel and her crowd’s twisted view of the world that they can’t see their way out. 

Worse, they probably don’t even want to.

Crowley swallows. The really awful thing is that a part of him understands. The collar, the attention — it’s addictive _ now,  _ what would it have been like before Beeze rescued him? If Fell — not Douglas, but _ Fell —  _ had found him then and offered, what? Food, clothing, and a few kind words? Fuck, Crowley would have said yes before Fell had finished asking. He’d have been on his knees begging for the leash from the start. He’d have taken it gladly.

_ You still would,  _ a secret part of him whispers.

“... a full brunch, of course, set up in the courtyard,” Loisin is saying as she leads them along. “A complete spread, coffee and tea and juice, and the most wonderful hot chocolate.”

Fell nods politely and keeps pace. Zuriel looks pleased, the tilt of her shoulders relaxed. Crowley squeezes his hands together behind his back and forces himself to keep it together. Maybe this is all an act. Maybe Loisin — and Freddie, and whoever else — is actually waiting for someone to take the organization down. 

Loisin leads them past a beautifully arranged garden, several more palm trees, and across another bridge. “Here we are,” she says when they arrive at the courtyard. A circular table has been set up and decorated with crisp white linens. There are three kinds of plates, two forks, more glasses than Crowley even owns, and matching napkins. “Sit, please. What can I get you to drink, Mr Douglas?”

Fell orders a fussy sounding tea while Crowly stares at the table. Another complication. It looks fancy. 

Crowley is not fancy.

“Sit, Tony, please,” Zuriel says with a laugh. “This isn’t a formal occasion.”

“How many forks do you use when it _ is  _ a formal occasion?” Crowley’s mouth asks before his brain has a chance to catch up. When it does, he winces.

Zuriel only grins. “Oh no,” she says, “when it’s a formal occasion, you don’t get any forks at all.”

Crowley looks at her confused. What? But Zuriel has already turned away to sit down. Fell puts a hand on Crowley’s elbow and guides him to a chair. “During a formal dinner you would sit on the floor and I would feed you.”

“Oh,” Crowley says blankly. He sits down. “Um.”

Zuriel laughs again. “I’ll have a latte, please, Loisin.”

“Yes, my lady,” Loisin says. “And you, sir?”

Crowley blinks. Is she talking to him? She’s talking to him. “Uh, orange juice. Please.”

Loisin smiles and bows. Zuriel says something to Fell and he chuckles, and then the two of them are off, making small talk about the plane and the weather. Crowley sits and keeps to himself as the food comes out. It’s an incredible array. Six different types of bread, eggs cooked every way he can think of, fruit and yogurt and french toast with bacon. There’s also rice in some kind of porridge for Zuriel and a wide selection of juices. Crowley doesn’t manage to eat much. The muffin on the plane had been enough and now he’s more tired and sick to his stomach than hungry.

He can only see the cost of everything around him, paid not just in dollars but also in lives. How many people does it take to make a meal like this? Are the cooks all like Loisin? Happy and smiling, wearing collars and offering bows to people who effectively own them? The thought turns Crowley’s stomach. He knows he won’t be able to eat another bite, but he reaches for his eggs anyways to move them around the plate. 

When Zuriel’s done she stands up and smiles at them both. “That was delightful. Unfortunately, I have some business to attend to, and then I think I’ll catch a few hours sleep before tonight. Please, enjoy yourselves. Anything you ask for is yours.”

Fell inclines his head. “Thank you, Ms DeAnge.”

She smiles again, glances at Loisin, and then turns to leave. Loisin gives them both a low bow before following.

Fell waits until they’re gone before turning to Crowley. “Tony,” he says. His voice is low but the fake name reminds Crowley they could be overheard. “You’ve hardly eaten anything. Are you okay?”

“I — ” Crowley starts. He wants to reassure him, to prove that he can do this, but he feels sick to his stomach. “It’s a lot to process, sir.”

“What do you mean?” Fell asks.

Crowley gestures to the food. “Zuriel said they have minimal staff, but the staff they _ do  _ have are… ” he can’t say victims, ‘Tony’ wouldn’t say victims “... like me. They’re owned, like I am. And they _ like  _ it.”  _ Like I do.  _

“Ah,” Fell says. He takes Crowley’s hand and squeezes it. “I see what you mean.”

“Yeah,” Crowley exhales. “I don’t. I’m not sure what to do here, angel.”

Fell smiles sadly at him. “There isn’t much we can do, Tony. We’re here only to experience the island, to enjoy it.” He closes his eyes. A faint tremor runs through him. “To be tempted by it.”

Crowley blinks at him. “Tempted, sir?”

Fell sighs. “Yes.”

“What could tempt you here? You already have me, you’re already the biggest name in London.”

“It’s still living a lie,” Fell says. “Working in the city, doing what I do, I have to pretend to be normal most of the time. Pretend that I don’t want — this.” He gestures, and there’s something in the motion that runs a chill up Crowley’s spine. Fell may be playing at being Douglas, but he isn’t being completely disingenuous. “I may be in a position of power but it’s a fragile position. If I’m too… honest… I could lose all the prestige that I’ve won.”

Crowley thinks of Gabriel. He swallows. “So, you’re tempted.”

Fell meets his eye. He nods. “Yes. Because here, the rules are much more simple.” He squeezes Crowley’s hand. “You are mine. I can do what I like with you. I could feed you from my hand, take you on this table, praise you or beat you or do both at once. The only rules that apply are the ones we make together. The only person I have to answer to, is you.”

Crowley’s breath catches in his throat. 

Fell’s eyes are sad. “I’m sorry if that disappoints you.”

“No,” Crowley says. He shakes his head. “No, I— I get it. The idea of… I mean, I’m _ already  _ yours, of course,” he touches the collar, “but the idea of having nothing _ but  _ that, of no responsibilities but to serve you… ” He can imagine it, and it’s good. It’s _ too  _ good. It’s seductive.

Fell squeezes his hand. “It’s a lie, of course,” he says quietly. His lips flick up in a smile. “You’d get bored before too long. We both would.”

“Maybe,” Crowley allows, “but I can’t fault anyone here, not really. If you… if you’d found me, before…”

He’s shivering. Fell wraps both of his hands around Crowley’s palm. “Breathe, Tony.”

Crowley sucks in air. “I’m sorry.” Fuck, he’s breaking down again. “It shouldn’t be as tempting as it is. I should be strong enough to resist this, I shouldn’t want to— ”

“Shhh,” Fell says. “None of that.” He pulls Crowley’s hand to his lips and kisses it. “‘Strong’ is a bullshit word someone made up once. Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is let go and trust that someone will catch you.”

Crowley tries to clench his teeth around the sound that wants to escape and is only half successful. 

“There, there,” Fell says, and pulls him tight for a hug. “It’s okay. This is a lot, I know. Why don’t we go to our apartment? You’re exhausted.”

Crowley’s jaw is still clenched. “I’m fine. I’ve gone longer than this without a full night’s sleep.”

“You need to rest.”

“I— ” Crowley starts. He grits his teeth. “I don’t know what I need.”

Fell pulls back far enough to look him in the eye. “Do you need to leave?”

“No,” Crowley says immediately. He wants to take these people down. Even if Loisin and Freddie are happy, there are other people who aren’t. He thinks of Edith Lively and swallows. “I can do this. I can. I just need to  _ not think _ for a minute.”

Fell smiles suddenly. “I have the perfect thing,” he says. “Come with me.”

  
  


*

  
  


They walk away from the courtyard, Fell leading him by the hand. Crowley tries not to look too hard at the perfect scenery, the tended gardens, or the artfully dressed maid who passes them carrying towels. Fell stops her, though, and asks something in a low voice Crowley can’t quite make out. She smiles and points to one of the buildings set off to the side. Fell nods and pulls Crowley towards it.

“What is it?” Crowley asks as Fell opens the door and ushers him inside. “Oh,” he exhales as he stops and looks around. “Not a room for staff, then.”

“No,” Fell says with a smile. He takes Crowley’s hand and tugs him forward. “This way, my dear.”

Crowley, stumbling slightly, follows after him. 

The room is large, curved in a wide circle with no interior walls. A jacuzzi bubbles to itself on their left and a well-endowed bar stands to their right. In the centre of the room is a pool. It looks cool and deep and larger than he would have expected from the outside. Crowley frowns at it. “I guess a dip would be nice.”

Fell is smiling. “Maybe later.” He squeezes Crowley’s hand. “This way.”

Crowley looks past Fell and sees a low table near the back wall. It’s long, wide, and has a circular headrest at one end. Even from across the room it looks incredibly soft. “Is that a massage table?”

Fell grins at him. “Yes, it is.”

Crowley looks around. “I don’t see any attendants.”

Fell shrugs. “I’m sure we could find someone if we wanted, but there’s no need for now.”

“If you say so.” Crowley eyes the table. “I don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of thing.”

Fell grin turns wicked. “I do.” 

“Oh.” Crowley frowns. “Is this you offering to give me a massage?”

Fell nods. “If you like.”

“Um.” Crowley looks back at the table. “I don’t know.”

Fell walks over to a cabinet Crowley hadn’t noticed before. He pulls out a sheet. “Have you ever had a massage before?”

Crowley makes a face. “Once.” It hadn’t been something he’d been eager to repeat. 

Fell folds the sheet over one arm. “We could make this number two.”

Right. “Okay. Um. What do I do?”

Fell is watching him. “What do you want to do?”

Crowley bites his bottom lip. “I don’t know. I guess I want a massage?”

Fell raises one eyebrow. 

Crowley winces. “Wrong answer?”

Fell huffs out a laugh. “There’s no _ wrong answer,  _ Tony. It’s a simple question: Do you trust me?”

Oh. Crowley swallows. He looks at Fell. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Fell asks. His own voice is low. “The same rules apply.”

Crowley licks his lips. “I’m sure. Sir.”

“Very well,” Fell says. He shifts and his shoulders straighten. “Then take off your pants and shirt and fold them neatly on the chair.”

Crowley jerks his head in a nod and does as he’s told. He takes the button up cover off first, then the short-sleeve shirt. Fell watches him. When Crowley gets to his pants and starts to feel awkward, Fell turns around and starts opening the doors of the cabinet near the floor. He’s pulling out bottles and setting them aside.

Crowley turns back to his clothes. The pants slip off easy, loose as they are. He folds everything as neatly as he can and then hesitates with his hand over his underwear. A quick glance behind him shows that they’re still alone in the room, but also that the door doesn’t have a lock.

Fell turns around in time to notice Crowley’s glance. “No, leave those on,” he says. His voice is even. “We aren’t alone in here, not really.”

“Right,” Crowley says. He leaves the boxers on and slides his sandals off. They’d come with the clothes and had fit just as well. He stands for a moment in his shorts and feels his toes curl with embarrassment. “Should I just— ?”

“Up here,” Fell directs, stepping back and patting the massage table with one hand. He pulls his own sleeves back, exposing the strong, delicious line of his forearm. Crowley loses a few seconds staring. “Lie down on your front, please.”

“Uh,” Crowley says, then has to shake his head. “Right, yeah. Coming.” He stumbles. “I mean —”

Fell laughs. Crowley flushes, embarrassed and yet pleased. How many people can make Fell laugh like that? He guesses the number isn’t many. “Your enthusiasm is appreciated, but like I said, we aren’t really alone here.” He grins and looks Crowley in the eye. “I believe you requested privacy for our next time.”

Crowley finds himself licking his lips. “Well,” he says, feeling the heat of the room, the intensity of Fell’s gaze, and the thinness of his shorts, “maybe we’re alone _ enough.” _

Fell holds his gaze for a moment before smiling. It’s a slow, measured expression. “We’ll see,” he says. He pats the table. “Up.”

“Yes, sir,” Crowley says. God, the honorific is just rolling off his tongue. Crowley ducks his head to hide his flush and does as he’s told, walking over to the table. It’s just as warm as the room and very soft. He hikes himself up and lays down on top of it, fitting his face into the obviously designed headrest at the one end. “Like this?”

“Yes,” Fell says from somewhere above him. Crowley shivers. He hadn’t realized laying down would mean he couldn’t see Fell. It’s distracting. It feels almost like he’s been blindfolded. 

There’s a whisper of sound and then something light and cool drapes across his legs. The sheet? “So, the massage you had,” Fell starts, his voice coming from somewhere just off to the side. “It wasn’t enjoyable?”

“Uh,” Crowley says, and then bites back a gasp as Fell puts his hands on his lower back. Jesus Christ, he’s _ warm.  _ And soft. His hands feel like they’ve been oiled. “N— no. Not really, no.” 

“Oh?” Fell asks. The bastard sounds like he’s swallowing a chuckle. His hands move lightly across Crowley’s skin. “How so?”

“Well, I, uh, went to a parlour with some, some guys once,” Crowley manages. Fuck, he’s got to keep it together. He’d almost said with some  _ officers.  _

“Mm,” Fell murmurs. His hands sweep up, over Crowley’s spine. “Not a luxurious establishment?”

Crowley can’t help but chuckle. “No.” It’d been just a step up from a hole in the wall. Hastur and Ligur — not the department's brightest bulbs — had been told to investigate the place for illegal activity. Then they hadn’t answered their radio’s for two hours and Crowley had been sent in to investigate. He’d found them lazing around in a hot tub. He’d yelled at them and in exchange they’d bullied him into a massage that had been among the most uncomfortable experiences of Crowley’s life. 

Fell hums. “Was this in London?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley admits. “I thought, uh. I was worried she’d feel the need to offer ‘extra services.’”

“And did she?” Fell’s voice is quiet. 

Crowley shakes his head. “No.” She probably would have if he hadn’t been so tense. Hastur and Ligur had arrested the woman in charge eventually. He hadn’t looked into the case to see specifically for what.

“I see,” Fell says. He sweeps a hand over Crowley’s shoulders. “So not a pleasant experience, then?”

Crowley exhales. “No. Not especially.” He turns his head to look up at Fell. “This is much nicer.”

Fell smiles. “I’m glad,” he says. “Now put your head down and stay still.”

Crowley grins but does as he’s told. Just to be contrary, he wiggles his bum. Fell chuckles and swats him lightly on the arse. “None of that.” Crowley isn’t sure if it’s his imagination, or if Fell sounds huskier than he had before. “Do you want a massage or not?”

“I dunno, I want a lot of things,” Crowley teases. Fell startles him with a sudden hard push towards the centre of his spine. “Oh,” Crowley exhales. Christ, that had felt good. “Never mind, I want a massage, do that again.”

“Say please?” Fell asks. Crowley can’t see but he _ knows  _ the bastard’s grinning.

“Fuck, _ please,”  _ Crowley hisses. “I’ll beg if you want me to.”

Fell’s breath huffs a little closer to Crowley’s ear. He definitely sounds huskier. “Not just yet. Right now I want you to lie still and take it. There’s a good boy.”

Crowley bites his lip. “Sir— oh, _ oh _ .” He cuts himself off when Fell starts on him again, kneading strong and deep now, digging his fingers into the meat of Crowley’s spine. “Gughhh.”

Fell chuckles and doesn’t stop. It feels amazing. Crowley starts off boneless and melts quickly into a puddle, muscles going liquid under Fell’s careful hands. There are spots of tension he hadn’t even known existed, tiny points of stress he’s been carrying for who knows how long. Fell’s perfect hands make every single one of them go away. It’s amazing. It’s addictive. It’s _ definitely  _ a temptation.

“You know, sir,” Crowley slurs, an unknown amount of time later. “I’d let you do anything to me if you promised to do this again.”

Fell doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Crowley finally drags enough muscles back under his control to prop his head up. Fell’s face is turned away as he works on Crowley’s legs. Crowley can still see the flush on his cheeks and the way he’s biting at his bottom lip. 

“I mean— ” Crowley amends. Shit. “I’m sorry, I— ”

“What,” Fell says in a voice that is obviously trying to stay mild, “did I say about apologizing?”

“Uh,” Crowley has to think back. “Not to?”

That at least makes Fell huff out a smile. “Come on,” he says, stopping his work on Crowley’s calf and patting the side of his knee instead. “Turn over. I’ll do your front now.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“Tony,” Fell says, and ohhhh, there’s that tone again. It makes Crowley’s dick twitch. He tries to think it down but Fell’s hand is still on his knee and his voice is hard. Calm, demanding, and absolutely expecting to be obeyed. “Turn over. Now.”

“Nuugh,” Crowley says, but does. He pries himself up off the table and flips over, laying with his back against the headrest. Belatedly he remembers that his boxers are really, _ really  _ thin. “Um.”

Fell’s eyes darken. Crowley watches him breathe carefully through his mouth, tongue coming out to flick against his bottom lip. Crowley wants to whine but swallows it down. His cock, however, doesn’t get the memo. It swells further.

“I’ll get a blanket,” Fell says finally, dragging his eyes away from Crowley’s groin.

Crowley loses the battle against the whine. “No, sir, please.”

Fell shakes his head — a swift, decisive motion — and turns away. There’s the sound of a cabinet opening and then Fell lays what feels like a weighted blanket over his legs. It’s surprisingly cool. Fell pulls it up and drapes it over Crowley’s waist.

Crowley can’t help but buck up into that faint pressure. “Come on,” he tries again.

Fell puts his hands on Crowley’s shoulders. It’s a wonderful, steadying pressure, and absolutely not what Crowley wants. “I,” Fell enunciates slowly, “am supposed to be calming you down.”

“I’d calm down a lot faster if you got me off,” Crowley tries.

Fell smiles. “No,” he says, dragging one hand up to cup Crowley’s cheek, “you’d _ pass out  _ a lot faster. That’s not the same thing.”

“Sir— ”

“Hush now,” Fell says. He lets go of Crowley’s face and picks up one of his arms. “I’m trying to work.”

Crowley huffs but manages to keep his mouth shut. He tries to hold onto his erection, fairly certain he can get Fell to change his mind, but soon enough the magical pressure of Fell’s fingers work him loose again. Too soon he’s back to being a boneless pile on the table, cock soft and half asleep. Fell massages his right arm and then his left, his chest and shoulders and then his feet. By the time he moves up to his legs and calves, Crowley has completely given up any hope of seduction.

Not that he doesn’t think about it when Fell’s fingers reach his thighs. Fell only chuckles and stops, though, well short of his groin, and moves up to Crowley’s neck. 

“Shift back on the table now,” Fell says. “I’m going to do your head.”

Crowley frowns but does as he’s told. “My head?”

“You’ve never had a head massage?” Fell removes the headrest and brushes a finger over Crowley’s ear. “I admit, I’ve wanted to get my hands on this hair for quite some time.”

“Oh?” Crowley asks. He can’t imagine his hair is any softer than Fell’s. “Why? I’m no comparison to those curls.”

Surprisingly, Fell blushes. “They’re more of a hassle than anything.”

“No, they’re— _ oh,”  _ Crowley loses whatever he was going to say when Fell buries his hands in Crowley’s hair. _ “Nnugh.” _

Fell chuckles. “Thought you’d like that.” He scratches his nails lightly across Crowley’s scalp. “Mmm. Lucious.”

“Burrgh,” Crowley manages. He loses speech again when Fell starts rubbing circles under his ears, erasing tension from Crowley’s neck as he drags Crowley deeper into bliss. It is absolutely heavenly. Crowley wonders if anyone’s hands on his head would feel this good, or if Fell is just magic. “Part o’ bein’ an angel,” he mutters, lost to the sensation.

“Mm?” Fell hums in question.

Crowley’s lip curls up in a smile. “Nev’r’mind.”

Time loses all meaning. It could be an hour later or a hundred, thirty minutes or three hundred, when Fell finally draws his hands away. “There,” he says, his voice soft and coming as if from a long distance away. “That’s what I wanted.” 

“NughMmmNuNnn.”

Fell chuckles. “Yes, quite.”

Crowley drifts contentedly. He misses Fell’s hands on him but he can tell the man is near, there’s the faint sound of water being run and then a quiet splash. Crowley dozes. He finally wakes up when the sound of feet drifts closer again. “Tony? How are you feeling?”

“Mm, good,” Crowley exhales, stretching his arms up over his head. He extends his heels down, stretching his calves, and feels glorious — loose and boneless and rested and _ great.  _ “How’re you, sir?”

“Good,” Fell sounds, sounding amused. “Very refreshed.”

“What?” Crowley asks. He manages to get his eyes open and turn onto his side. “Oh, come on, that’s not fair.” Fell has clearly been in the pool — his curls are damp and there’s a bead of water running down behind his ear — but he’s fully dressed again in the loose cotton pants and shirt. “You went skinny dipping and didn’t invite me?”

Fell grins wickedly. “I was going to, but you looked so peaceful. I couldn’t bear to wake you up.”

“Bastard,” Crowley growls. He flops back onto the table and stretches again. “Just for that I’m going to demand another massage tomorrow.”

Fell laughs. “Oh you will, will you?” He tosses his wet towel onto Crowley’s face.

Crowley splutters. “Yes, absolutely. _ And _ I want to come skinny dipping with you after. Not fair, you being finally naked and I don’t get to see.”

Fell arches an eyebrow and turns away. “We’ll see.”

“Oh, I will,” Crowley purrs with a leer.

Fell laughs again. “Incorrigible,” he says, but his eyes are dancing. “Come on, let’s go find our host. I have a feeling dinner will be a formal event and I want to make sure there’s something appropriate for us to wear.”

Crowley makes a face but sits up, sliding his feet off the table and onto the cool, tiled floor. “You’d actually wear a suit in this heat? Wait — ” he pauses in the act of reaching for his clothes, “ — you mean formal like in formal-formal?”

Fell raises an eyebrow at him. “I very much suspect you aren’t getting cutlery, no.”

“Well,” Crowley says, stepping into his pants. “This’ll be fun.”

  
  
  
  



	8. Chapter Eight

  
  


Crowley looks up at the sky as they walk out of the massage room. It’s, what, one? Two o’clock? Something like that. He turns to Fell. “Do you think Zuriel’s awake yet?”

Fell frowns. “That’s a good point. She’s probably not.”

“We could go to our room,” Crowley offers. “See what’s there.”

“We could,” Fell agrees, “if we knew where it was.”

Crowley looks around. “Oh. Right. We… could try knocking on doors?”

Fell laughs. “I doubt very much we’ll need to. Come here, my dear.” He takes Crowley’s hand and threads their fingers together. “Let’s choose a path and walk for a bit. I’m sure we’ll run into someone soon.”

They do. It’s Loisin, in fact. She’s watering flowers by the edge of a pool. “Mr Douglas,” she says, catching sight of them and straightening, “and Tony, how lovely to see you again. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Her large smile is just as off-putting as it was earlier. Crowley can’t help but check it for signs of deception. Is she really that happy to be here? Could there be any chance she’s faking? 

If there is, he’s not skilled enough to see it. Loisin looks completely at ease. Fell asks for directions and she nods. “Absolutely! Please, follow me. I’ll take you to your cottage.”

“Thank you,” Fell says. He falls into step behind her. “I’m looking forward to seeing it. Ms DeAnge promised appropriate clothing would be available and I was hoping to find some in our room. I understand we’re invited to dinner tonight. We would not want to appear underdressed.” 

“Of course not! And yes, we have quite the selection. Unfortunately they’ll be nothing appropriate for dinner in your closet. What were you thinking? I can gather a few outfits from the main house, if you like.” She gestures to their right. 

“Thank you, yes, but not right now. If you could drop them off later that would be wonderful. What options are there? I was thinking something along the lines of a Fendi myself.”

“Oh yes!” Loisin exclaims, her eyes lighting up with real interest. “Most certainly. We have several very nice lightweight Fendi’s that would suit you, and one or two Dolce and Gabbana’s as well.”

“Excellent. Any Louis Vitton, by chance?”

“Well,” Loisin starts, and they’re off. 

Crowley tries to follow — he really does — but he knows next to nothing about clothes. His personal tastes are limited to ‘black’ and ‘tight’ and whatever he can find on the sale rack. He likes looking _ good,  _ of course, but designers? Too high-brow for him.

Of course, like everything else this weekend, that hardly matters. Fell gestures towards Crowley after settling his own clothes. He says something low that has Loisin responding with a grin. Crowley shifts his weight from foot to foot. He _ could  _ ask, he supposes, but why bother? He’ll find out soon enough.

They finally make their way to their so-called cottage. It’s a ridiculous name for a space that’s both larger than his London flat and infinitely more luxurious. Loisin opens the door for them, bows to Fell and leaves, promising to be back later with clothes. Crowley can’t resist walking to the closet. Sure enough, there’s nothing there but a set of robes, a few extra towels, and— “Ha,” he exclaims, pulling out a maid’s uniform. “Zuriel really did it.”

Fell smiles and shakes his head. “Of course she did. I never doubted her.”

Crowley waggles his eyebrows. “Want me to put it on?”

“While I’m sure you would look delectable in it, my dear, I think I need to sleep first.” Fell slips off his shoes and leaves them by the door. “I’ve got to admit, I’m feeling rather done in.”

Crowley winces. Now that they’re alone, Fell looks exhausted. He must have been holding back. “Oof. Yeah, angel, of course. You want the bed?”

The bed is a ridiculous, a king-sized monstrosity. No one needs _ that  _ many pillows, surely.

“The bed would be lovely,” Fell admits. He crosses the room and lays down. The moment he does, he relaxes. The lines beside his eyes begin to smooth. “Mm. Just heavenly.” He pats the comforter. “Feel free to rest yourself.”

Crowley licks his lips. “No, I’m— I’m okay.” Fell needs to sleep and Crowley does _ not  _ have good impulse control. “There’s a chair here that looks more my style.”

“Are you sure?”

Crowley nods. “Absolutely.”

“Okay then, dear boy. I’ll just have a nap. Wake me by five if I’m not already up, please.”

Crowley promises he will. Fell gives him another smile, turns his head, and falls quickly asleep. Crowley watches with a faint smile on his face, that is until he _ realizes  _ he’s watching with a faint smile on his face, and then he goes hunting for the TV remote. Sappy. Who would have thought Detective Inspector Crowley would get _ sappy?  _

The TV isn’t hard to figure out. Crowley spends a few hours watching old movies with the sound turned off. Eventually a knock comes at the door. Crowley stiffens. He’s abruptly reminded of where he is — on an island, deep undercover, with the only person he trusts asleep and vulnerable — and creeps towards the door. He misses his pepper spray acutely.

Unfortunately, there is no peephole. Crowley cracks the door open and peers outside. “Yes?’

It’s Loisin. She’s carrying two sets of clothes.

“Good afternoon, Tony,” she says, her voice dropping when Crowley puts a finger to his lips. “Sorry.” She lifts the clothes. “These are for you and Mr Douglas. Dinner will be at seven in the open courtyard. May we expect you there?”

“Yeah— uh, yes. You may. Sorry, Mr Douglas is sleeping.” Crowley takes the bundles awkwardly. “Will it only be the three of us tonight?”

Loisin smiles. “I believe so. We are waiting on confirmation for one more, however. You may have an additional diner for dessert.”

Crowley tucks that knowledge away to share with Fell later. “Sounds good. Thank you, Loisin.”

She inclines her head and leaves.

Crowley takes the clothes inside the cottage. Fell is still lying down but something about his careful breathing makes Crowley suspect he’s actually awake. Smiling, Crowley hangs the clothes inside the closet without looking at them and crosses back to the bed. “Everything’s fine, sir. Go back to sleep.”

Fell makes a considering noise but relaxes. Three minutes later Crowley’s sure he’s asleep. Crowley tries to go back to his movie but finds himself dozing off a little. Thankfully he’s able to flicker in and out of consciousness enough to watch the clock.

It’s not quite five when Fell wakes. The light has shifted and a beam of gentle sunlight from the window passes over his head. He twitches and blinks, and then moves, rolling away from the sun. There’s an adorable pout-like expression on his face. Crowley can’t resist moving to his side of the bed. “Hey.”

The pout fades as Fell looks up, lips curling in a familiar smile. “Hello.”

Crowley resists the urge to run a hand over the slightly flattened mess of curls. “How did you sleep?”

“Mm, pretty good,” Fell says. “What time is it?”

“Not quite five.”

“Good,” Fell says. He raises his arm in clear invitation. “Join me?”

Crowley debates for half a second before giving in. He crawls into bed and snuggles under Fell’s arm. The mattress dips and curves in response to his weight. “Oh,” Crowley breathes, settling in, “that is comfortable.”

“Sinfully so,” Fell agrees. He turns to snuggle Crowley more effectively. “Mm. Even better.”

Crowley’s never been much of a snuggler. He’s surprised how quickly he goes boneless in Fell’s grip. “Ngk.”

Fell chuckles quietly and presses his lips to Crowley’s temple. Crowley shivers. Fell holds him for a moment longer, then signs softly and releases him. He pushes himself up and swings his legs out over the edge of the bed. “Were those our clothes that arrived a while ago?”

“Um,” Crowley has to force his brain to reboot. “Yeah.” He misses Fell’s warmth already. Rolling over, he sprawls in the spot Fell has abandoned. “Mm.” He lifts his arms up over his head and stretches. “Didn’t get much of a look at them. Seemed fancy to me.”

“Hm,” Fell murmurs. He crosses to the closet and looks inside. “I won’t disagree with you. This Fendi beach suit probably costs several thousand dollars.”

“Ghah,” Crowley says with a shudder. “Rich people.”

Fell laughs. “It’s a different world.” He studies Crowley for a moment. “You didn’t come from money.”

Crowley shivers. “No. I come from, well, whatever the opposite of money is where you still have a home.” He makes a face. “Not that I was welcome there after I came out.”

Fell puts a hand on Crowley’s ankle. “How old?”

“Was I?”

“Yes.”

Crowley swallows. He doesn’t like to talk about those years. Doesn’t like to think about them, mostly. Something about Fell’s quiet question has him answering, though. “Sixth form. It took me years to go back and finish. Years and— ” He can’t say Beeze’s name.

Fell seems to hear it anyway, or maybe he read it in Crowley’s file. “I’m glad you had help.’

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees, and then remembers that he’s ‘Tony’ here. “Didn’t — uh — didn’t last though, which is how I washed up on your doorstep, of course.”

Fell gives him a small smile. “I’m glad.”

“Well, you would be,” Crowley manages. He clears his throat and looks back at the clothes. “What chicken suit did you order for me this time? Something more substantial than our last party, I hope. I doubt tight pants and destructible shirts are the fashion rage in Sicily.”

“Which is too bad,” Fell agrees, turning back to the clothes. He glances over his shoulder and grins wickedly. “I like you in destructible shirts.”

“Ngk.”

Fell chuckles. “Fortunately, you look gorgeous in everything. Here, what do you think of this?” He turns around and holds Crowley’s outfit up for view. 

Crowley stares. “N— uhhh. You can’t be serious?”

“Oh?”

“I can see right through that!”

Fell raises an eyebrow. “I seem to remember a certain see-through shirt you had in your possession.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Crowley protests, “but not see-through _ pants.” _

Fell clicks his tongue. “Nonsense, dear boy, it’s a light cotton wash and, besides, you’ll have these.” He lays out a set of simple white drawers that probably cost more than Crowley’s monthly rent. “So you’ll be perfectly decent, see?”

Crowley glares at the gossamer thin shorts. “You just want everyone to see me come in my pants when you feed me orange slices with your fingertips.”

Fell actually blinks twice at that. “Is that actually a possibility?”

Crowley blushes furiously. “No. Yes. Maybe. I dunno.” He _ is  _ ridiculously turned on by the careful, controlled way Fell moves, and he’s always been sensitive. The thought of kneeling at Fell’s feet, feeling Fell’s hand in his hair, being fed choice bits of food… His cock stirs impatiently. Crowley shifts on the bed. “Possibly.”

“I see,” Fell says slowly. He looks up and down Crowley’s body, his eyes going dark, pupils growing to consume the iris. He bites his bottom lip. “We could find you something else to wear, if you’d prefer?”

Crowley closes his eyes, a shudder running through him. “Very reassuring, sir. You can’t just promise to slip me a fork?”

Crowley can hear the shark-like smile in Fell’s voice. “Oh no, I don’t think that will be possible. It would be an insult to our hosts.”

Crowley opens his eyes to glare at him. Yup, shark-like smile. Check. “I’m sure.”

Fell chuckles. He takes a step closer to the bed and puts his warm palm back on Crowley’s ankle. “Don’t forget,” he says lightly, “you’re mine now. That means I can do anything I like to you. And I like the idea of feeding you very much.”

Crowley’s mouth goes instantly dry. His cock stirs again. Fuck, this is why coming in his pants remains a very real possibility. “Nuugh.”

“Mm,” Fell murmurs. His eyes are very steady on Crowley’s face. “That’s right. You understand, don’t you?” He rubs a circle onto the skin of Crowley’s ankle. “You are mine.”

Crowley stares at him. “Y— yes.”

Fell’s eyes are very blue. “What’s my name, Tony?”

“Uh, buh.” All of Crowley’s blood has rushed south. He has very little left for his brain. In desperation he screws his eyes shut. “Um. Sir.”

“Are you sure?” Fell asks lightly. “Think carefully, Tony.”

Crowley takes a deep breath. He is a Detective Inspector. He is undercover. Fell is checking in with him. “Yes, sir.”

He opens his eyes in time to see Fell smile. There is a light in his eyes, now, a teasing glint. “Really?”

Crowley chuckles and ducks his head, avoiding Fell’s eyes as he blushes.  _ Jesus,  _ this man. “Yes, I’m sure. Damn you. Sir.”

Fell’s lips curl again in a smile. “Very well, then.” 

“Ghah,” Crowley mutters, looking away. He scrubs his hands through his hair. “I’m glad you’re happy.” He glares at Fell. “This wouldn’t have been as much of a problem if you’d let me come earlier.”

Fell expression turns hungry again. “Is that so? You poor neglected thing.”

Crowley feels warm. “Fuck,” he growls. He points a finger at Fell. “You. Stop talking.”

Fell laughs. It breaks the moment. Crowley turns away, gathering himself, pretending to busy himself with the TV remote. Fell hangs their clothes on the closet door. “We should both have another shower and a shave,” Fell says. “I’ll go first.” He pauses then and looks over at Crowley. “You are not to get yourself off while I’m gone.”

Crowley swallows. “Wh—? I wasn’t going to— ” He glares at Fell. “But now I _ want  _ to. Thanks for that.”

Fell grins. “You’re welcome.” And then he turns and walks away.

Crowley groans and collapses back onto the bed. His hand actually twitches down towards his pants before he catches it. “Fuck,” he curses, heartfelt, then very deliberately moves his arms up to rest over his head. It isn’t enough. He can roll over, he knows. He’s so worked up, a quick rut against the bedsheets would be all he needs to— 

He groans. Fell would know — obviously — and then he’d be upset. Crowley loses himself for a moment in the fantasy of what Fell might do, what punishment he might choose. The whip? No, he knows Crowley likes the whip now. Something harder, maybe. A paddle? No, a belt. Yeah. Maybe he’d turn Crowley over and make him go on his hands and knees. He’d hit him a few times — just enough for Crowley to feel it, to worry if Fell were really actually mad or merely upset — and then he’d soothe the pain afterwards, wouldn’t he? He’d lay those warm, delicious hands on Crowley and maybe he’d—

Okayyyy. Crowley breathes out carefully, so turned on his skin hurts. Not calming himself down, then. Actually, Fell would probably look disappointed if Crowley disobeyed him and not, like, _ sexy  _ disappointed. Fell had asked if Crowley wanted out and Crowley had said no. Just because Crowley liked pushing against the rules, testing to see which were important and which he could break, didn’t mean they could be reckless. They were undercover. Fell only had a limited means of checking in with him and Crowley suspected that if he pushed, Fell would give in rather than risk overstepping. 

Which is probably why people talk about this kind of thing before putting themselves in these situations.

“Okay,” Crowley murmurs, out loud this time and with a hard bite at his lips. He needs to think of something else. Something not sexy. Something… something...

He’s got nothing. Crowley groans. Maybe he should take a nap. 

He doesn’t quite manage a nap but his libido has almost settled again by the time Fell walks out of the shower. Unfortunately for his dick, Fell crosses over to the side of the bed, naked but for a towel wrapped around his waist, and asks, “Are you having fun?”

Crowley groans and digs his hands into the mattress again. All that effort, gone. There’s a drop of water lazily making it’s way down the side of Fell’s face, just in front of his ear, trickling down from those riotous, ridiculous curls. Crowley’s glad he’d kept his hands above his head. Having them anywhere near his waist would be a very bad, no good idea. “Not particularly, no.”

Fell — the bastard — chuckles. “Poor thing.” He turns away and walks towards the closet. “Your turn in the shower now,” he calls over his shoulder. “Same rules apply.”

“Come on,” Crowley grumbles, but doesn’t say more. He’d had his chance to opt out of this and he’d said no. Ridiculously that makes him even _ more  _ turned on. He could have gotten off by now if he hadn’t let Fell make the rules. Crowley shivers but stands up from the bed. It’s uncomfortable to walk all the way to the bathroom with such a raging erection but the sweet slide of the deliciously warm water soothes his fraying nerves. “Mm,” he murmurs into the shower. “That’s nice.”

Cleaning himself proves to be a little more difficult. Crowley manages to avoid the slippery-sweet promise of a quick release by keeping his motions efficient and perfunctory. Eventually he turns off the shower and towels himself dry. Of course the towels are ridiculously luxurious, so soft and thick he thinks he could lay them on the floor and have a decently comfortable mattress. Shaking his head he crosses to the vanity and opens the cabinets to see what products are available. There are too many for words. He picks up one he recognizes and shakes it, then runs the resulting mousse through his hair. Looks good.

The next challenge comes when Fell knocks on the door. Crowley slings a towel about himself and peers out. And nearly swallows his tongue. Fell looks _ amazing. _

“Nuu-nugh-ghah-buh,” Crowley mangles, staring at Fell. 

Fell chuckles. “You’re rapidly losing your language skills this trip, my dear.”

“Neeegh,” is Crowley’s eloquent reply. “You. Clothes. Wow.”

Fell raises an eyebrow. Crowley finds he suddenly does not care how much the suit costs, it’s worth every penny. Fell looks incredible in it. The cream white jacket sits perfectly on his strong, firm shoulders, the two buttons in the front rest gently over the wonderful curve of his belly. Beneath the jacket is a white shirt, relaxed and comfortable looking. He’s left the top button open to expose the intoxicating curve of his throat. The pants are just as well fitted, pleating neatly down his legs, and Crowley is worried he’ll spontaneously combust when Fell turns around to give Crowley a look at the perfect curve of his ass. “It’s very bright,” Fell is saying, turning back to Crowley, sounding much less enthusiastic than Crowley feels. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

Crowley makes an effort to master his tongue. “It’s… you… ” He crosses his eyes. Focus. Concentrate. He’s a professional. “You’re upset by the palette?” Fell had been wearing light colours the first time they met. It seemed to be his aesthetic. He had worn a dark suit the night he dressed up as Douglas, though. “I thought you talked to Loisin about clothes?”

Fell touches the buttons of his jacket. “We discussed sizes, yes, but not colours.” He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Hm,” Crowley says. Does someone know Fell prefers light tones? Is there a chance they’ve been made? He doesn’t feel any danger, but then he wouldn’t, would he? Not until it was too late. “They do go for light colours here, though I wouldn’t have expected anything else this far south.”

“You’re right,” Fell agrees. He musters a smile and holds out Crowley’s clothes. “I’m actually here to give you these. I thought you might prefer to get dressed in the bathroom.”

Crowley blinks at the clothes. “Really?” He looks up at Fell, catches the smile in his eye, and smirks. “You mean, I’d be too tempting if I stripped out there.”

Fell smirks back. “To quote the Americans across the pond, I plead the fifth.”

Crowley laughs. “I don’t think it works that way in Sicily.” He grins at Fell. “You’re lucky I’m not a cop.”

Fell’s eyes dance. “I rather am, yes.” He clears his throat and steps back. “We have twenty minutes. I’d prefer to leave in fifteen.”

Crowley sighs. “Yes. Right. Fifteen minutes.” He looks back at the mirror. At least his hair is done. “I’ll be ready in ten.”

Fell shrugs. “Take your time.”

Crowley nods and closes the door, hanging his clothes on the hook provided. He turns to the mirror and stops when he notices the smile on his face. Ugh, so sappy. He doesn’t want to stop, though. Goddamnit, but he _ likes  _ Fell. The more time Crowley spends with him, the more he actually gets to know him, the more he likes him. Not just lust after him, or trust him, but genuinely like him. And Anthony J Crowley doesn’t actually like that many people. He doesn’t even know if he likes Beeze most days. He trusts them, he owes them — everything. More than his life, he owes them, like, his _ soul — _ but he could very easily say goodbye and spend a week without them and not blink.

But Fell? Crowley actually likes Fell. He likes Fell like he likes Anathema, like he’d miss Fell if he disappeared for a few days. That, well. Crowley puts his hands on the counter and looks at himself in the mirror. That might be a problem. 

First things first, get through the op. Crowley lets go of the counter and pulls on his clothes. They fit perfectly, of course. He should really stop being surprised by this. The fabric is soft, the shirt light, and the entire ensemble obviously expensive. But it’s still see-through. Crowley looks down at his pants and scowls. Under the thin cotton he can easily make out the scrawny jut of his legs and the bony curve of his knees. The underwear is doing its job, it’s harder to make out the line of his cock, but it’s definitely noticeable that he dresses to the left. 

A fact Fell clearly notices when Crowley walks out of the bathroom. “Well, well,” he says, his eyes sliding down Crowley’s legs, “I was right, you _ do  _ look gorgeous in everything.”

Crowley feels very naked and very turned on. He’s not sure how comfortable he is with the idea of walking across the island like this. “You could have just painted me in beige body paint. It would’ve been cheaper.”

Fell raises an eyebrow. “Oh no. I think the layers make you look ever the more delectable. Like a present to be unwrapped.”

“Ghk,” Crowley manages. He just had a shower and already his skin feels tight. “Can we just go?”

There’s absolutely no pity in Fell’s expression. “In a moment.” He steps forward, close enough that Crowley could duck his head and tuck his nose into the curve of Fell’s shoulder. Close enough to smell his cologne. “Let me get this.” He undoes a button on Crowley’s shirt and then runs a finger over Crowley’s collar. He smirks when Crowley’s shivers. “Better.” He steps back and crooks his arm. “Shall we?”

Crowley makes a sound like a rattled teakettle. Fell only raises an eyebrow and waits.

“Sure,” Crowley manages, eventually. He takes Fell’s arm.

He survives the walk to the courtyard. He isn’t entirely sure how, but he does. The air has cooled a little since they’d last been outside and maybe the slight breeze helps. As does the fact that they don’t pass any other people on the way, despite Crowley being terrified that they will. Of course, Zuriel is waiting for them outside the courtyard. She looks beautiful, her silky dark hair done up in a deceptively simple knot and a white satin dress hanging off one shoulder. She grins to see them. “I’m so glad Loisin found you, what a handsome pair you make. How was your day, gentlemen? I trust you found everything to your satisfaction?”

There’s a glint in her eye that tells Crowley she already knows they had. He remember his earlier thought on the plane, that the entire island is likely fitted with cameras and hidden microphones. Fell must be thinking the same thing but his voice is warm when he replies. “Yes, we did. Thank you, Ms DeAnge.”

She waves a hand. “Not a problem, happy to help.” She gestures to the table behind her. “Shall we?”

Crowley swallows and looks past Zuriel. The table looks lovely. There are two places set — delicate white plates topped by napkins folded to look like swans — and beside them three kinds of forks and two sorts of knives. No spoons, thankfully. There are also glasses, one tall, one short, one sort of squat-looking, and Crowley would be nervous enough if he were expected to sit down in front of them. He isn’t. He is, instead, a heady combination of terrified and turned on because there are _ pillows.  _

Two pillows. Both white — following the aesthetic, Crowley thinks, distantly — and quite large, obviously designed to be sat upon. They’re on the floor, each to the right of a place setting, and somehow not the least bit out of place. There are no plates on the floor, no cutlery or utensils — no glasses, either — but there is an extra napkin underneath each right-most knife. Crowley stares at it all and feels himself start to hyperventilate. They’re really doing this. 

Fell takes his arm. “Breathe, Tony.”

The hint of humour in his voice startles Crowley. He turns around to glare at Fell, which breaks the moment. “That’s easy for you to say.” 

Fell raises an eyebrow, a smile on his lips. Crowley turns back to the table and swallows. He trusts Fell. Maybe Beeze is right and he shouldn’t, but he does. If Fell thinks this is funny enough to laugh at, then Crowley isn’t in any danger. He’s going to be subjected to one of the most embarrassing, excruciating experiences of his life, but he isn’t in any danger.

Frustratingly, the thought makes the blood rise to his skin even more than it already has. A sound wants to escape his mouth from behind his teeth. Crowley locks his jaw. He refuses to let it. 

When he finally drags his eyes away from the table, Zuriel is grinning at him. “We have a wonderful meal planned. Don’t you worry, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

Crowley manges to blush, glare, and feel _ even more  _ turned on. Fuck his life. 

Zuriel only laughs. “Sit, please.”

Fell inclines his head and steps forward. He smoothly undoes the buttons of his jacket and sits, gesturing Crowley to the pillow at his feet. “Loisin had mentioned we might have another guest. Do we know if they will arrive?” 

Zuriel smiles warmly. “Not yet. We’re awaiting confirmation now. Either way, they won’t be here in time for dinner, so we may as well start.” She turns and glides to the only other chair, lowering herself into it with a dancer’s grace. “Would you like to begin with a martini?”

Crowley tunes out the conversation as he approaches the pillows. The first complication comes when he tries to sit. He has never, unlike his companions, been accused of grace. He tries kneeling onto the pillow but that puts _ far  _ too much pressure on his pants so he scoots sideways instead. His goal is to untangle his legs and get himself into a half lotus position — score another for Anathema and her crazy exercise ideas — except he slips sideways off the pillow and almost brains himself on the floor. Glowering, he pulls himself back up. He shuffles around until he’s seated firmly in the middle of the pillow and is able to shift his weight and get his legs crossed in front of him. They’re too long, though, and his knees bounce awkwardly above the floor. Ugh. Crowley shimmies forward until his ass is on the pillow but his feet are on the ground. There. Now he actually has a half-decent chance of sitting or staying upright throughout dinner. Looking up, he blinks to see both Fell and Zuriel grinning down at him.

“What?” Crowley asks, defensive. 

Fell chuckles and reaches out to run a hand along the back of Crowley’s neck. “I’m sorry, my dear, you are rather adorable. Forgive us.”

Crowley grumbles and avoids Fell’s eyes but slumps sideways towards him. The position of the pillow puts Crowley at roughly hip-level with Fell, but a slight slouch to his shoulders makes it possible to tuck his cheek against the side of Fell’s thigh. That has the dual advantage of allowing him to both inhale Fell’s scent and avoid Zuriel’s gaze. 

Fell lets him hide, rubbing a thumb across Crowley’s collar as he speaks across the table. “This is a lovely treat. Thank you for the invitation.” 

Crowley knows he can’t spend the whole meal hiding. He looks up in time to catch Zuriel’s smile. “Of course. Our line of work can be so demanding, it’s good to make time to relax and recharge.” 

Crowley manages to turn his incredulous snort into a cough. Fell doesn’t say anything. Loisin arrives to take their drinks order. 

“One martini with Spring gin, if you have it,” Fell says. “Two olives.”

Zuriel smiles up at Loisin. “I’ll have the same.”

Loisin nods and turns away. Fell and Zuriel make small talk. Crowly relaxes and follows the conversation, listening intently as Zuriel keeps them firmly on neutral ground. She discusses current affairs and pop culture. Fell attempts to turn that back towards their employers. “The internationality is what I enjoy so much about London,” Fell tries, clearly fishing for information, “though the work is, of course, neverending.”

“It is,” Zuriel agrees, “which is why I find this island so relaxing. Have you heard of the new play coming to the Garrick Theatre? It looks delicious.”

Fell shrugs. “I have, but we aren’t likely to go.” He runs a hand over Crowley’s back. “Tony’s not a fan of the tragedy’s.”

Crowley blinks but doesn’t say anything. He isn’t, actually, though he swears they’ve never discussed theatre before.

Zuriel smiles. “No, he’s more of a happy-ending sort of guy, isn’t he?” She smiles across the table at Crowley. “Lucky for him.”

Crowley ducks his head. If Fell were truly Douglas, Zuriel’s sweet smile would be sickening. As it is, when Fell’s fingers tighten in his collar, Crowley leans into them. Ghah, the double-nature of all this is making his head spin. 

Loisin appears with two martini’s. “Wonderful,” Zuriel says. “Thank you, Loisin.” She takes her martini and holds it out to Fell. “To new beginnings.”

Fell nods. “Absolutely.” Their glasses clink.

They talk about the island next. Fell asks about the history and Zuriel gives him an abbreviated story, never quite mentioning when the shadowy organization she belongs to took over. 

“Well, it is beautifully done,” Fell says with a glance over his shoulder. The sun is setting just beyond the trees, on the thin strip of beach they can see from the courtyard. “I know you said you kept minimal staff, but they really do an excellent job. How many people are here exactly?”

Zuriel only smiles. “The perfect number. We’ve encouraged skill diversity and training.”

Fell nods and doesn’t press. 

Loisin appears again, this time carrying two small platters she exchanges for Fell and Zuriel’s top plates. It’s a variety of picturesque savouries. Crowley recognizes sausage and sliced meat, olives and what might be pickled… beets? 

“Excellent,” Fell says, leaning over the dish. He inhales delicately and then smiles. It’s a real smile, one that makes the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen. “Fra’mani soppressata.” He chooses one of the sausage slices carefully, picking it up and then popping it into his mouth. “Delicious.” 

Crowley abruptly realizes that he’s miscalculated. He’s not going to come in his pants when Fell feeds him orange slices. He’s going to have nothing but air to give after making a mess of himself watching Fell eat.

The dance in his eye. The tiny happy hum. The satisfied curl of his upper lip… Good _ God.  _

At least he isn’t the only one to think so. Zuriel is openly staring at Fell. “Why, Mr Douglas,” she says, a little breathless. “You know your food.”

“Mm,” Fell says, opening his eyes and smiling at Zuriel. It’s a very cat-got-the-cream expression. Crowley kind of wants to die. “I do enjoy the finer things, I won’t deny.” And then, goddamn him, he turns to look at Crowley, and Crowley actually whimpers. “Tony. Would you like to try a piece?”

Fuck a duck. “Uhhh,” Crowley manages. 

Zuriel is probably smirking but Crowley doesn’t care. He only has eyes for Fell. Fell smiles at Crowley, another true smile, and then turns back to his plate. He looks over the offerings carefully, taking his time, and then finally selects one of the slices. He picks it up carefully and turns back to Crowley. “Here you go, my dear. Open up.”

Oh god, the coming in his pants thing is actually going to happen. Crowley grits his teeth and clenches, trying to hold back the force of his erection. Fuck. Fell is doing nothing to help the situation, smiling down at him like the angel he is, white curls a halo in the setting sun. Then he makes matters worse by reaching down and placing the pad of his finger against the corner of Crowley’s mouth. He strokes the skin there softly, invitingly, and when Crowley’s mouth falls open, he lifts the morsel into view.

Crowley gives up and closes his eyes. He leans forward and accepts the treat. The flavour of fat-oil-salt hits his tongue and he can’t help but moan. It _ is  _ good. 

“That’s a boy,” Fell murmurs quietly. He still has a hand on Crowley’s cheek. “You took that so well. Look at you.”

Crowley whimpers. He manages to flutter his eyes open. “Sir.”

Fell smiles. There’s a muttered _ ‘Holy shit’  _ from across the table but Crowley is absolutely not paying attention. He’s going to die. He’s so turned on there’s no blood left in his body at all for his head. 

He manages to stay upright. It’s a struggle. Crowley tries to follow the conversation as best he can but it gets progressively harder after that. Fell keeps eating, choosing his selections carefully. Crowley keeps losing the thread of what Zuriel is saying or how Fell responds when Fell stops, smiles down at a particular morsel, and picks it up for Crowley.

The world goes white-noise whenever Fell offers it to him. Crowley shudders and takes it. Every time. 

Loisin comes over at some point and changes their plates. After that the next bite Crowley is offered is soft and soaked in butter, with the faint briny taste of the sea. He couldn’t say more than that, though, because Fell is — fuck — Fell is _ running  _ his _ hand  _ through Crowley’s _ hair.  _

It’s the last straw. Crowley sags and lets go completely. He loses the conversation completely, loses time and, hell, probably space. He is aware only of Fell, of his hand sometimes on Crowley’s face, his sweet, angelic, perfect voice asking Crowley to open up, and then the slide of something hot/sweet/savoury into his mouth. It’s never Fell’s cock, which Crowley wants so badly he burns, but there is always a whispered word about how good he’s being, how proud Fell is of him, and that’s nearly as good. 

Crowley’s a shivering, shaking mess by the end of the first course. By the second he’s barely human. His world has narrowed to a single point. 

“You’re being so good for me, Tony,” that point says. Crowley feels his angel’s hands in his hair. He leans into them. “So good. I have one more bite for you. Just one. Can you do this for me, Tony? Can you take it?”

Crowley shivers but nods. He tries to push himself upright and can’t. He’s too tired. He turns his head instead, tilting it towards his angel’s voice, trying to be good even as his burning need rises to a fever pitch. 

The last one. This is the _ last one.  _ Fell is going to touch him again and then — 

“Good. Look at you. I’m so happy, sweet boy. You make me so happy.” Crowley opens his mouth to pant at that. “This is the last bite. Here you go.” Fell touches the side of his face. He keeps his hand there, cupping Crowley’s cheek, and then — oh fuck — and then the pad of his thumb swipes carefully across Crowley’s lower lip.

Crowley whimpers. His mouth falls open. Fell pushes inside. God. Fell’s thumb is inside his mouth, smeared in chocolate, and it’s _ perfect.  _ It’s not quite what he wants, but it’s hard and long and _ him.  _ Fell shifts his thumb back and forth, dragging it along Crowley’s tongue, making him arch his back and suck harder, and that’s it, he’s gone, he’s—  __

He’s coming. He’s actually coming, untouched, hips jerking as for the second time in two days he makes an absolute mess inside his pants. He moans, sucking harder on Fell’s thumb, reaching up with shaking hands to grasp at his wrist and pull, seeking something, anything. “Sir!” he tries.

Fell pulls his thumb out of Crowley’s mouth and cups Crowley’s cheek. Crowley manages to get his eyes open and look up at him. 

Fell is staring at him, transfixed, his gaze steady on Crowley’s face. His mouth smiling, the crinkles in his face deepening and ohhh— 

Crowley spasms again. 

“Yes. Yes. Well done. Very well done,” Fell is saying. He strokes the side of Crowley’s face, which feels wet, why is it wet? “Good boy. Sweet boy. So good. You’re so good for me, dear.”

Crowley shudders and shakes and buries his face in Fell’s hands. Fell comforts him, pulling Crowley’s head down to his thigh and stroking Crowley’s hair, running a hand down the side of Crowley’s face and across his neck, rubbing the back of Crowley’s shoulders. “Shh, good boy. You’re a good boy.”

Crowley is distantly aware of the world fading in and out. There are other sounds, the clearing of dishes, a presence that comes and goes. He doesn’t care. None of it matters. He breathes in and out, letting the scent of Fell anchor him. A hand settles on the back of his neck. It’s firm and steady and Crowley gives into it gratefully, sliding back into oblivion.

He’s not ready to come out of it when Fell abruptly jerks. Crowley is startled by sudden tenseness that floods Fell’s muscles, turning his soft and comfortable thigh into a rod of iron. He looks up, bleary, feeling half out of it and disconnected, and sees Fell staring — shocked — across the table. 

Crowley blinks and turns towards the door. At the end of the courtyard, in the entrance where Loisin goes in and out to fetch their dinner, is a woman. She’s very tall and regal-looking, with straight, firm shoulders, and a proud nose. She has a smile that might have been beautiful if it weren’t so self-satisfied, and eyes that would have been pretty if they weren’t so malicious.

There’s something familiar about her, Crowley realises. It’s tickling the back of his mind. If he were more in control of himself he might get it, but as it is Crowley can only stare, realizing suddenly that Fell is afraid, that his pulse is beating rapidly in the hollow of his throat. 

“Aziraphale,” the woman says. She takes a step towards their table. “How wonderful to see you again.”

Crowley startles. How does this woman know Fell’s  _ name?  _ Fell only smiles thinly. “Michael,” he says, his voice a shard of glass — hard, sharp, and brittle. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Crowley realizes with a shock of dread what’s so familiar about her. The cheekbones, the nose, the upright, striking posture. 

Gabriel. 

She looks like Gabriel.

“Michael Choir,” Crowley breathes. 

Michael looks down at him, one curve of her eyebrow raising. “Yes, indeed, Detective Inspector. How nice to finally meet you at last.”

  
  
  



	9. Chapter Nine

  
  


Crowley’s stomach twists. He stares at Michael.

Zuriel slides out of her seat and sinks down to her knees. Crossing her hands on her lap, she folds herself gracefully onto the second pillow as though that were its purpose this entire time.

Michael's smile warms. She steps regally down the stairs like a queen walking to her throne. Fell doesn’t move from his place at the table. His thigh remains tense beneath Crowley’s hand. Some of the colour is coming back into his face, though. He seems to be getting a handle on his shock. “I hadn’t thought to expect your company. Will you be on the island long? It’s been some time since we vacationed together.”

Michael laughs. “Oh, Aziraphale. Always the cool customer. I was so looking forward to surprising you, too.” She lowers herself into Zuriel’s abandoned chair. “It _ has  _ been a while, hasn’t it? Not since that awful river jaunt Gabriel arranged years ago. This is much nicer.” She smiles down at Zuriel, who turns her face up to look at her, an expression of utter devotion on her face.

Bile rises in Crowley’s throat. What the _ fuck? _

Michael crosses her legs demurely. “As for my stay, I plan to be here exactly as long as I need to. I am sorry to have missed dinner, though. I tried to get back sooner but there were a few things I had to settle at home. Gabriel is getting worried. Did you know? He’s doing that thing where he pretends that everything is fine while he secretly frets.” Michael sighs and reaches for Zuriel’s water. “My brother is an idiot.”

Fell presses his lips together. “He has his charms.”

Michael scoffs. “Of course you’d say that, you’ve been stuck with him as a partner for years. Ah, well. I shouldn’t be so hard on him. He may be a moron, but that’s okay.” She smiles at Fell over the rim of her glass. “It’s not like you caught onto me, either.” 

“I should have,” Fell says. He’s trying to sound casual but Crowley can hear the tightness in his voice. “We thought someone might be hacking into our systems. We started to be cautious about updating our electronic case files.”

Michael scoffs. “Please. As if I’d need to do something as low-brow as _ hack  _ when Gabriel sets his password to something so incredibly obvious.”

Fell nods slowly. He folds his hands together on the table. “He didn’t tell you, then? You guessed on your own?”

Michael smiles slyly. “Yes,” she says, “of course you’d wonder if my brother were a part of this, but no. Gabriel has no idea. I really am working alone.” She looks down at Zuriel and smiles. “Well, not _ alone  _ alone, obviously, but my brother is quite innocent of this endeavour.”

Fell does relax then. Slightly. “‘Gabriel’ and ‘innocent’ are two words I wouldn’t think to hear put together. Especially by you.”

Unexpectedly, Michael laughs. “I know! And yet in this regard it’s true. I don’t think he even suspects, to be honest.”

“But he has been keeping you informed about our investigation? Off the record?”

Michael rolls her eyes. “Aziraphale, you know my brother. Gabriel never talks about anything _ except  _ work. Big breaks, investigations, gossip… he’s a regular clucking hen. And that’s before you get some scotch into him.” Her eyes glitter. “That’s how I heard all about you.”

Fell exhales slowly. “So this entire thing was a set up?”

Michael sighs. “Unfortunately, no. No matter how much I’d like to take the credit, we hadn’t actually planned on losing Douglas. Gabriel and I have dinner once a week. It’s pure luck that we met the night before the yacht party.” She grins. “I certainly agreed with him that the idea of you going undercover was brilliant. Thankfully he didn’t notice when I took a five minute ‘business call’ to update Zuriel.” She shakes her head. “Too busy laughing himself sick at the idea of you leading some helpless detective around on a leash.” Michael turns her gaze on Crowley and smiles. “I see now that his feelings were unfounded.”

Fell’s thigh tenses again under Crowley’s hand. “Oh?”

Michael laughs. “Come now, Aziraphale. You knew this was an interview, yes? I’m pleased to say that both of you passed. With flying colours, even.” Her smile takes on a wicked edge. She stretches out a hand and runs her fingers through Zuriel’s hair. Zuriel closes her eyes and leans into the touch. “Zuriel says the two of you work well together.”

Fell manages a smile. “How kind.”

“In fact, she says she never would have known you weren’t Douglas if she hadn’t been told beforehand. She told me you blended in perfectly.” Michael’s mouth curls. She looks almost proprietary. “I’m not surprised. You’ve always had hidden depths.”

Crowley stomach sinks. He recognizes the glint in Michael’s eyes. This is about more than gloating. She’s got a _ plan. _

Fell gets it, too. His expression is starting to crack. “What do you want, Michael?”

She grins. “What makes you think I want anything? Isn’t it enough to know my friend is enjoying himself? It’s quite the paradise I’ve created here, is it not?” She gestures to the island. “What do you think? I admit, I’ve been coveting your opinion for some time.”

Fell’s lip curls. “It’s a lovely slave resort.”

Michael tutts. “Aziraphale.”

“What else do you want me to say?”

“I want you to be honest,” Michael says, her eyes narrowing. She turns to Crowley. “What about you, detective? What do you think?”

Crowley stares. “...ugh.”

Michael smiles. It’s not a nice expression. “You see the beauty of this place, don’t you? The possibilities? Don’t lie and tell me no.”

Crowley bites back so many retorts, they get stuck in his throat. 

Michael laughs. “Come now, detective. You’re clearly enjoying yourself. Isn’t it nice to be here? Good food, lovely weather, and no pesky rules to follow except those your dom sets for you?”

Fell grits his teeth. “What do you want, Michael?”

Michael’s smile turns sharp. “I want you to acknowledge that you like it here. I want you to acknowledge that you’re good at this. I want you to know that I’m right.” She pauses to take a sip from her water glass. “I want you to come work for me.”

Fell’s mouth actually falls open. “You _ what?”  _

“You heard me,” Michael says. She leans back. She’s trying to look casual, but Crowley can see the hunger barely leashed in her eyes. “You can’t tell me it isn’t tempting. The pay is better, of course, but it’s not about that. You _understand,_ Aziraphale.” She puts her hand on Zuriel’s head and twists her fingers in Zuriel’s hair. Zuriel whines. “You get this. You know why it’s so important. Why we crave it. Why we need it. We’re the same, you and I.”

Fell twitches. He shakes his head. “No.”

Michael scoffs. “Please. You can’t deny it. I _ know  _ you, Aziraphale. You need this like I need this. You’ve been doing what you can, organizing everything you see, micromanaging your office at work, even going to clubs when you have time, but it’s not enough. I know it’s not enough. And it doesn’t help when you have people like my idiot brother in the way, poking fun and not understanding, not comprehending how very _ essential  _ this is.”

Fell is shaking. It’s a subtle thing, something Crowley can feel more than see, but it frightens him. He presses his shoulder into Fell’s thigh, offering what support he can give.

Michael notices, of course. Her smile turns sharp. “You do need it. And I can give it to you. The regular world doesn’t want to know about us. They force us to put a polite smile on our desires and hide. But here?” She indicates the island. “Here we can be everything we need to be. We can relax, we can learn.” Her smile turns wicked and her hand clenches. Zuriel makes a soft, almost inaudible sound. “We can play.”

“And in exchange,” Fell rasps, his voice wrecked, “all you give up is your soul.” 

Michael rolls her eyes. “So dramatic. It wouldn’t be as bad as all that. Think of all the good you could do. I’m sure there are people who could be shuffled away from certain operations, mafia kings you could talk down with your subtle hand. You think you can stop the trafficking trade from the outside?” She scoffs. “You don’t stand a chance. You know that, too. How many years have you been on the job? What have you managed to do?”

She leans forward. “But if you come and work for me, you’ll have the opportunity to do more. So much more. And you’ll be able to enjoy this, too. You’ll have your detective at your side, every step of the way, in the way you _ want  _ him. Bound, chained, panting, and _ yours.  _ Always yours.” 

Fell doesn’t look at Crowley. He’s staring at Michael. “A generous offer,” he manages eventually, “but I’m afraid I must decline.”

Michael’s expression turns soft. “Oh, Aziraphale,” she murmurs, “I’m sorry. Did you think I was offering you a choice?” 

He stares. Michael turns to Crowley and smiles gently. Her eyes are cold. 

The threat is clear. 

“I see,” Fell says evenly. He inclines his head. “Of course. Forgive me.”

“Certainly,” Michael says, waving a hand and leaning back in her chair. “The fault is mine. I wasn’t explicit enough. Obviously your detective’s life is forfeit if you decline.”

“No,” Crowley says.

Michael startles and looks down. “What?”

Crowley meets her eye. His hands are clenched into fists on his thighs. He realizes suddenly that he’s _ furious.  _ People have threatened him before, but this time his life is being used as a lever and he _ hates  _ that. “You can’t just kill me, that’s not how this works.”

Michael scoffs. “You don’t know anything about how this works.”

“I know that if I’m gone your leverage against him dies,” Crowley growls. “There’s clearly more going on. What do you really want, Michael? You can’t realistically have expected him to agree to be your business partner. You want something from him. What is it?”

Michael’s expression sours. “You should have a word with your pet, Aziraphale. If you’re going to keep him, that is. No manners on this boy.” She turns up her nose. “Not that I would have expected any from gutter trash.”

Crowley’s jaw tightens. Fell puts a hand on his shoulder. “He’s worth ten of you,” Fell says coldly. “He also has a point. Enough games, Michael. What do you want?”

Michael sighs and leans back in her chair. The tension that had been ratcheting up between them is broken. “You’re just like Gabriel, business business business, all day long. But look at us, being uncivilized. We should not be talking without drinks in our hands. Loisin!”

Loisin appears in the doorway, a half-worshipful, half-terrified look on her face. “Yes, my lady?”

“Wine, please. Something fine. The Tusk Estate cabernet sauvignon, I think. Do we still have a bottle of the ‘09?”

“Yes, my lady,” Loisin says with a bow, “several I think. Would you like one?”

“Please,” Michael says. “Two glasses, and two bowls, as well.” She glances down at Zuriel and a smile flits over her face. “I think we all deserve a drink.”

Loisin bows and leaves. Fell makes what Crowley’s mother would have called a moue of distaste. “You always did have expensive taste.”

Michael smirks. “Yes and Gabriel always felt so good about himself whenever he was able to buy me a bottle of some middling thousand-pound wine. The poor dear. I always said thank you very politely, you know, and then gave it to Freddie or someone to drink. At least they enjoyed it.”

Crowley hates the idea of Freddie in this woman’s grasp. Fell just shakes his head. “I can see why you got into this business in the first place. You weren’t so different from Douglas, were you? Got a taste for how the game worked, realized how much money you could make, and how much power you could steal.” He raises an eyebrow at Zuriel. “How much fun you could have.”

Michael trails a hand lazily over Zuriel’s shoulder. “It was quite difficult to stop when I finally gave in,” she admits, “but of course I couldn’t rest there. You know how dysfunctional the entire operation was. Warlords and mobsters and millions of desperate people just trying to get by.” She shrugs. “It was less effort than you’d think to pull them all together.”

“And now you’ve built yourself an empire,” Fell says. “Everything is perfect. Except for the part where you almost got caught.”

Michael’s expression sharpens. “‘Almost’ is a loaded word.”

Fell shrugs. “Gabriel came close that time in April. I know he did. And this particular operation would have succeeded if you hadn’t known ahead of time that I’d be taking Douglas’s place.”

Michael sighs and rolls her eyes. “Yes, fine. It’s getting dangerous. That,” she goes on, just as Loisin appears at the doorway with a very dark bottle of red, “is precisely what we need wine to discuss properly.”

She waits as Loisin goes through the ritual of opening the bottle. Beside the two crystal-cut glasses are a pair of elegant bowls. Loisin pours Michael a tasting sip, waits for her approving nod, and then pours her and Fell each a glass. She fills the bowls not quite halfway. With a nod, Loisin wipes the bottle with the cloth she’s carrying over one arm and places it on the table. Then she walks back through the doorway and out of sight. 

“Drink,” Michael says, letting Fell choose a glass. She picks up the bowl closest to her and holds it out for Zuriel.

Zuriel looks up at her with a devoted smile and bends her head. Michael steadies the bowl as she sips from it. Michael smiles and leans over to speak to her, saying something so quietly even Crowley can’t hear. She shifts a hair falling across Zuriel’s forehead. 

Crowley swallows the combination of revulsion and want that’s crowding at the back of his throat. He looks up at Fell. “Sir?”

Fell closes his eyes. His shoulders sag. He looks suddenly exhausted. “Detective,” he says, slumping back in his chair. “I’m so sorry I dragged you in to this.”

“Don’t call me that,” Crowley says reflexively. “And you didn’t drag me anywhere. I volunteered.”

“You might have in principle,” Fell exhales, “but you didn’t actually know what you were volunteering for.”

Crowley glances back across the table. “Neither did you.”

“No,” Fell admits. He’s looking over Michael, too. “That’s true.”

Desolation is not a good look on him. If they’re going to get out of this in one piece, Crowley needs Fell at the top of his game. Crowley glances at the wine bowl. His gut prods him. “Actually, I'd like a little of the wine, sir. If you don’t mind.”

Fell blinks and looks down. “I— yes, of course. Here.” He reaches for the bowl and tries to hand it to Crowley. 

Crowley doesn’t take it. Instead he shifts his cheek to lay it back against Fell’s thigh. “Actually, I’d rather you give it to me. Please?”

Fell stops. His eyes dart over Crowley’s face. “Are you sure?”

Crowley smiles up at him. Despite everything — despite Michael — it’s easy to do. Damn, but he’s got it bad. “I’m sure.”

Fell takes a deep breath and then nods. His back straightens slightly. He shifts the bowl so he can hold it in one hand and puts the other on the back of Crowley’s neck, right over his collar. He uses gentle pressure to direct Crowley towards the bowl. Raising the wine, he tilts it so Crowley can take a careful sip.

Goddamn, it _ is  _ good wine. Crowley doesn’t know a merlot from a burgundy but even he can appreciate the rich burst of flavours that explode on his tongue. “Oh,” he says, licking his lips. “Oh my.”

Michael laughs. Crowley scowls and looks over to see her straightening from where she’d been bent over murmuring to Zuriel. “You see?” Michael says with a grin. “Even the detective understands. Sometimes fine things are worth the price.”

Crowley glares. “I wouldn’t enslave people just for a glass of wine.”

“Maybe not,” Michael admits, “but would you give them what they wanted for it?” She strokes the back of Zuriel’s neck. “You more than anyone must see how everyone on this island is here because they want to be.”

“Maybe,” Crowley admits, “but they’re the lucky few, aren’t they? There are thousands of others who are bought, sold, and traded. I remember the other people wearing collars on the yacht, and the people they were with. They didn’t choose. They’re trapped. That blood is on your hands, and all for a fine glass of wine.” He sneers. “For your own imagined glory.”

Michael’s eyes narrow. “I may not decide to kill you outright, detective, but believe me there are plenty of other things that I can do. Please, continue to insult me.”

Crowley grits his teeth. A hand lands gently on his shoulder. Crowley stops and takes a breath, looking up at Fell. Fell is staring steadily at Michael. He seems to be in control again, and Crowley gives his gut a mental high five. 

“Enough with the threats,” Fell says evenly. “We have wine now. What business was it you wanted to discuss, Michael?”

Michael glares at Crowley a moment longer before tossing her head and reaching for her wine. Zuriel, who had tensed during the exchange, relaxes. “As you insinuated, the game is very nearly up. Gabriel hasn’t caught me yet, but he’s going to sooner or later. That means it’s time to pull up and lay low for a while. A month or two, four at the most. After that I’ll restart operations.”

Fell purses his lips. “Sensible. I suppose you want my help with that?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Michael says. “I want you to help me destroy the records Interpol has on me. I want to erase all evidence of my operation, burn every case file, and implicate Gabriel in the process.”

Fell startles. “You— What?”

Michael rolls her eyes. “They wouldn’t actually convict him. The evidence will be scant and they won’t be able to make anything stick. They _ will  _ take Gabriel off the investigation, though. Whoever replaces him will have months of catch up work to do. That’ll give me enough time to pull up roots and replant.” 

The lines beside Fell’s eyes tighten. “You’re not asking for much, are you?”

Michael smiles sweetly. “I believe we’ve already established that I’m not _ asking,  _ Aziraphale. Oh,” she glances back towards Crowley, “and I want you to fake your own death, of course. And that of the detective inspector.”

Crowley swallows.  _ Beeze,  _ he thinks, and then tries to stop his heart from racing. They'll be devastated if they think Crowley got himself killed.

“And in return for all of this,” Fell says, his voice brittle again, “you’ll keep us here?”

“In return for all of this,” Michael corrects gently, “I’ll let you both live.” She takes another sip of wine. “I’ll let you both stay here because I’m feeling generous. Your detective might rage and roar, but we both know that he’ll be perfectly happy. You will be welcome to join me in my work. It might take a few years, but I know you’ll join me evetually. You’ll get bored sitting around. Maybe you’ll decide that from the inside you can leak clues to Interpol. Or maybe you’ll focus your efforts on dismantling the case against Gabriel. Either way it’ll prove an interesting decade.” She smiles at him over her wine. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Fell’s mouth tightens. “You always did enjoy a challenge.”

“They keep life interesting.”

“We played chess, I remember, on that river cruise Gabriel took us on.”

“We did,” Michael says. Her eyes glitter. “I won.”

Fell takes a deep breath. “So you did.” He looks down at the table. “Distract Interpol, implicate Gabriel, and fake our own deaths. Is that all?”

“Well, no,” Michael admits. She shifts her legs and smiles at them, a slow, dangerous, _ hungry  _ smile. “Like I said earlier, this entire thing has been an interview. And you’ve both done well, you really have. But I want to see for myself. Reports from others can only go so far.” 

Fell’s face has gone blank again. “Excuse me?”

Michael’s smile sharpens. “Don’t play stupid now, Aziraphale, it doesn’t suit you. Zuriel has been keeping me in the loop. She says the two of you are quite something. ‘Entracing,’ I believe, were her words.” She looks down long enough to smile at Zuriel, who looks besottedly back up at her. “I wish to see such wonders for myself.”

Fell’s lips barely move. “Is that so.”

“It is so,” Michael says, her voice implacable. “In fact, I want you to fuck him. Right here. Right now. On this table.”

Crowley’s fingers clench. His heart rate accelerates. He can’t pretend at least half of it isn’t desire. “Uhh.”

Fell doesn’t look at him. He’s staring at Michael. “No.”

Michael raises one eyebrow. “No?”

Fell shakes his head, a short, sharp motion. _ “No.”  _

“I really will kill you,” Michael says softly. “Your pet detective thinks I won’t, and I admit that my preference would be not to, but I will not let preference stand in my way. You’re clearly too dangerous to let live. You’re like a man-eating tiger, Aziraphale. Death or captivity are your only options.” She holds up a hand. “And before you decide to throw yourself on that sword, remember that without you, I have no use for the detective at all.”

Crowley’s hands clench into fists. Simmering desire or not, he hates being used as a goade for someone else. Especially if that someone is Fell. But one look at Fell has him sighing.

Fell looks furious. His jaw is clenched. He looks like he’s two seconds from doing something rash, something that could get him or Crowley killed.

Crowley doesn’t particularly want to die here, but he wants Fell to die over something so stupid even less. It’s just sex. They can suck it up and get it over with, and live to fight another day. Hadn’t Beeze told him to do anything he needed to do to survive? That’s all this is. “Sir.”

Fell doesn’t look at him. He’s still glaring at Michael.

_ “Sir,”  _ Crowley tries again. “We should do it.”

That gets a reaction. Fell whips his head around to stare at him. “What?”

He sounds horrified. Worse than that, he sounds betrayed. Crowley decides to forget about Michael for a moment. “Hey,” he says. “It’s okay.” He fumbles for Fell’s hands. They’re as cold as ice. “It is.”

“It—  _ Crowley.  _ This entire thing is the very opposite of okay.” 

“Eegh— yeah, fine, you’re right.” Crowley squeezes his hands. “That’s not your fault.”

Fell laughs hollowly. It’s a sickening sound. “You know that’s not true.”

Crowley licks his lips. “Come on, sir. You know I’ve wanted you to fuck me since the moment you put the collar on me. Since the moment you stepped into my apartment, maybe.”

Fell shakes his head sharply. “That’s not— ”

“It’s just sex, sir.”

Fell stares at him helplessly. “It’s not.”

Crowley squeezes his hands. Fell’s right. “Maybe. The thing is, sir, if we don’t go along with at least some of what she’s planning, she really will kill us. She already hates me. And she doesn’t need you that bad.”

“You should listen to him, Aziraphale,” Michael says. Her eyes are glittering. She looks, if anything, even hungrier than before. “He’s not a dumb as he looks.”

Fell throws her a hateful glance and physically turns so she’s at his back. “Listen to me,” he says, turning his hands so he’s got Crowley’s fingers trapped between his palms. “I don’t want you to die, but I also don’t want to do this.”

“I know,” Crowley assures him. He bends forward and presses a kiss to Fell’s thumbs. They’re starting to warm. “I honestly don’t see any other way out of this, though. Not right now.”

Fell closes his eyes. He looks devastated. “I don’t even know if I _ can.”  _

Crowley remembers Fell telling him two days ago — has it only been two days? It feels like longer — that he wouldn’t have to worry about intercourse, because Fell doubted his ability to remain hard if Crowley weren’t 100% willing. 

Crowley smiles at the memory. It won’t be a problem. “You can,” Crowley assures him. He looks up at Fell through his lashes, and lets a little of the desire he feels bubble up to the surface. There are other emotions present, of course, fear and anger and horror and an aching kind of sadness. But there’s desire, too. “If I ask you to, if I beg prettily enough, you will.”

Fell laughs brokenly and threads both of his hands through Crowley’s hair. He’s trembling and there are tears in the corners of his eyes. He’s also given in, and they both know it. “I am really, so very _ , very  _ sorry for dragging you into this, my dear.”

Crowley shivers and looks up, letting himself drown in Fell’s blue, blue eyes. “I’m not.”

Michael stands. Crowley jerks his head over to look at her. He hadn’t precisely _ forgotten  _ that she was there, but… “I think we all know what’s going to happen here.” She claps her hands twice. “Loisin!” The girl appears in the doorway. “Clear the table, please, and get another bottle of wine — a moscat, this time I think — and a platter of fruit. Oh, and chocolates, too. Let’s do this right.”

Crowley swallows but doesn’t move from Fell’s side as her orders are obeyed. The table is cleared and more glasses brought. Fresh strawberries and tiny plums are laid out, bunches of grapes and small, delicious looking clementines. Chocolates and pale bottles of wine follow. 

Michael sits back in her seat when they're done, popping a grape into her mouth as she grins across the table. “Anytime.”

Fell glowers at her and turns back to Crowley. He strokes a hand down Crowley’s cheek. Crowley closes his eyes and leans into the sensation. Fell’s hands are so _ soft.  _ They shouldn’t be that soft. He’s held a knife and whip and a glass of champagne. He should be hard edged and dangerous, but he’s not.

He’s firm, and stubborn, and principled. He challenges Crowley and praises him and looks after him, so sweetly and well. It’s Crowley’s turn to do the same. He has to get Fell through this, so Fell can get them through whatever comes next. Crowley has no idea how they’re going to beat Michael, alert Interpol, and save Gabriel. Fell will, though. If they can make it through this part, Fell will take care of the rest.

So they have to make it through this part. 

Fell’s hand is on his cheek again. Crowley tilts his head up and smiles. Fell chuckles, a low, slightly uneven sound, and lower his head. Crowley’s eyes flutter as he feels the whispered hush of Fell’s breathing, the warmth of him, now close. “What do you want, Crowley?”

Crowley feels a pulse somewhere low in his belly. He isn’t Tony anymore. He’s not playing a role, at least not one Michael would understand. This is the start of something different between them. Something more real. Crowley wants to find a way to put that into words. He can’t. “Please.”

He swears he can feel Fell smile. “‘Please,’ what?”

“Please kiss me, please take me, we can forget— ”

Fell’s grip on his face tightens. The hand that had been cupping his cheek turns, grasping him firmly by the neck, holding him in place. “No,” Fell says sternly. Crowley’s eyes fly open and he stares. Fell is glaring at him. “If we’re doing this, I want us to remember. Because I’m going to make it all better one day.” The hand gripping his face doesn’t move, but the hand that had been on the back of his neck turns gentle, sweeps a thumb up and down his spine. “I’m going to make all of this up to you, I promise.”

Crowley’s surprised to find himself smiling. “Oh yeah, with what? Flowers and chocolate and whips and chains?”

Fell’s expression never changes, but there’s a smile behind his eyes. “I was thinking I’d tie you to the bedposts and not let you move for days.”

“Ooo,” Crowley breathes. Fell probably has one of those old four-posters, and he’d have the good kind of rope, too, firm and sturdy but soft. He’d probably tie Crowley down so securely he wouldn’t be able to even wiggle his toes. “You’d have to do everything for me, you know.”

Fell smiles and his expression is very, very soft. “Yes. You’d have to take what I gave you and you might beg for more, but I’d give you only what you wanted.” He trails his hand down Crowley’s chest and around his side, hugging his waist. “What you deserved.”

Crowley’s full on panting now. His eyes are probably as big as saucers. For once, though, he doesn’t miss his sunglasses. He wants to see every expression on Fell’s face. “And what do I deserve?”

Fell draws him closer, tipping his head up. “Everything,” his whispers, and then kisses him.

It’s like being struck by lightning. A full-body charge. Crowley groans into Fell’s mouth and Fell takes ruthless advantage, plundering his lips and grappling with his tongue. Fell’s hands tighten on Crowley’s body and Crowley feels himself picked up from the floor. He has a one white-hot, cock thickening realization of how _ strong  _ Fell is, and then he can feel the table pressing against his spine. Fell is over and above him, holding him down with the weight of his body, and—  _ fuck.  _ Crowley’s going to do something very embarrassing, he swears to god.

He must have mumbled something to that effect because Fell is chuckling into his mouth and pulling back slightly. “Is that so?” Fell teases, sliding one hand up Crowley’s body. Crowley’s arms are curled above his head. He’s not a short guy, but all of his height is in his legs. On his back like this, he’s thrilled to learn that Fell can reach his wrists with one hand, holding them together above his head as his other hand cups Crowley’s waist, thumb splayed down towards Crowley’s hips. Crowley jerks. 

“Yes, _ Christ.”  _ He writhes a little more, trying to gain some friction against Fell’s hand. Fell grins wickedly but doesn’t move, his wrist a careful few inches from Crowley’s groin.

“Beautiful boy,” he says, smiling down. Crowley has a half second to remember that Michael’s there, that she’s watching him, and then Fell is squeezing the bones of his wrists together and Crowley groans. It’s just-this-side-of-painful.

“That’s right, focus on me,” Fell murmurs. He’s staring at Crowley, but there’s a sadness behind his eyes. “Me, just me.”

Crowley banishes Michael from his brain and rolls his hips, the gauzy thin cotton doing nothing to hide the way his cock has swelled embarrassingly fast, especially since he’d already come once today. “Not going to be a problem, sir.”

Fell’s expression lightens and he sears Crowley’s mouth with another kiss. “Now,” he says, his plump lips a sinful two inches away from Crowley’s aching mouth. “What am I going to do with you?”

Crowley goes for Fell’s mouth and fails. Fell is fully on top of him now, his weight perfectly _ right, _ and yet his face is just too far away. “Fuck me,” Crowley pants. He rolls his hips again. Oh god, he can feel Fell’s erection, at least he thinks that is— “That was the plan, right?”

“Hmm,” Fell says. He shifts his hips and Crowley swears. Fell raises an eyebrow and Crowley swears again. Fucking hell, Fell looking so collected while Crowley is completely falling apart should not be as hot as it is. “I think I should make you wait a little longer.”

Crowley groans. “Come on, you’ve made me wait _ all weekend.”  _

“Is that so?” Fell shifts further away _ — goddammit! —  _ and trails a hand up Crowley’s thigh. “Have you been waiting all weekend for me to fuck you?”

“Nuugh.” Hearing the word ‘fuck’ come out of Fell’s prim mouth is ridiculously erotic. Sweet jesus, this man is going to kill him. “Pretty sure I’ve asked you to twice already.”

“That’s true,” Fell says, mildly. He leans in again, careful to keep his hips well away from Crowley’s. His voice drops. “But you haven’t _ begged  _ me yet.”

“Please,” Crowley babbles. He arches his hips again but there’s no friction, nothing but empty air and he can’t— “Please sir, please angel, just fuck me, please _. Please!  _ I want you, I want you so bloody much it’s awful, it’s ridiculous, I’ve never been this hung up on someone before— fuck!” He throws his head back when Fell presses a strong, firm hand against Crowley’s erection. The pleasure of it is almost blinding. Crowley jerks up into that hand and almost cries when Fell takes it away. “No! Come back! Please _ , please!  _ Please fuck me, sir!”

“So very prettily,” Fell murmurs against his lips. Crowley tries to say something — anything, probably more ragged nonsense — but Fell sucks the words out with his mouth. He devours Crowley in pieces, slowly, methodically, taking him apart moment by moment, until time is an illusion they’re well advised to forget. Crowley only realizes after it’s ended that both of Fell’s hands have come up to cradle his face. 

His arms are still up over his head. He could move them. Should he move them? Fell doesn’t give him time to decide. He puts one hand on Crowley’s hips, where his thin cotton shirt has ridden up to expose a sliver of skin, and Crowley’s brain goes white again.

“Oh,” he groans. He’s floating in pure sensation. Fell’s hand is fire-hot and enough to drive the breath from his lungs. “Oh,” he gasps again when Fell’s second hand moves to mirror his first. 

“Lovely,” Fell murmurs again. His fingers slip under the waistband of Crowley’s underwear, and Crowley emits a high pitched whine. Bloody hell, dolphins probably heard that. Whales. 

He is seriously going to come now. He can’t not, it’s too much.

Fell moves up and bites Crowley’s side. Crowley jerks. “Ghah!”

He jumps away as much as he can — which isn’t much — and glares down at Fell. “What the hell?”

Fell just grins wickedly back at him. “Pulled you away from the edge, didn’t it?” 

Crowley grumbles but doesn’t have time to admit that Fell is right before Fell is distracting him again, dragging his hands up Crowley’s chest. His nails thread through Crowley’s chest hair, his thumbs brush against Crowley’s nipples. Crowley would have sworn he wasn’t sensitive there, and yet sparks flare at Fell’s touch. “Ah!”

“Mmm,” Fell hums, and bends down, taking one of Crowley’s pebbled nipples in his teeth.

“You don’t— I can’t— oh _ fuck.”  _ Crowley spasms as Fell bites down. “NuUGH! How is that—? OH!” Fell twists his other nipple, first one way and then the other, all while biting down on the first. “Why?!”

Fell raises his head enough to smile at him. “Because you like it, of course.”

“I don’t, don’t— No! Don’t _ stop!” _ Crowley gets a hand onto Fell’s head and pushes him back against his chest. “Fucking Christ.”

Fell frowns at him. “You’re sending very mixed messages, my boy.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one destroying my higher brain functions. Whoa— Ah!” Fell is attacking his nipples again. “Bloody-chriiist!”

“Say stop if you want me to stop,” Fell says, biting his way over to Crowley’s other nipple. “No games now. Not here.”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t,” Crowley chants. He’s staring up at the sky beyond the trees. The stars are coming out. “Don’t stop.”

“Mm.” Fell gets one hand on Crowley’s head and threads his fingers through Crowley’s hair, pulling sharply just as he twists Crowley’s nipple. “That’s right.”

Crowley writhes. Fell eventually takes pity on him and lets go of his chest, cradling Crowley’s cheeks as Fell brings their mouths together. Fell kisses him sweetly, so tenderly after being so rough with his nipples, and then kisses his way down Crowley’s neck.

“Nuugh,” Crowley manages, blinking to try and restart his brain. Fell’s lips feel so good, he’s—

“Oh!” Fell has slid down to Crowley’s hips, he’s tucking his fingers into Crowley’s pants and sliding them down his thighs. “Finally!”

Fell chuckles. “So demanding.” He twirls his tongue into the crease of Crowley’s thigh. Crowley jerks and Fell grins into his skin. 

Crowley bucks his hips. “I’ll show you demanding, I’ll— ”

Fell doesn’t stop, sliding Crowley’s pants down his legs. Crowley’s ultra thin, likely ridiculously expensive boxers slide off with his pants. Fell helps them along, hooking his fingers into the elastic band. Crowley’s cock is left bouncing, swollen, in the air. “Oh _ fuck.” _

“Yes,” Fell breathes. He eyes Crowley’s cock hungrily. It gives a helpless twitch. Fell looks away from it to slide Crowley’s pants the rest of the way down his calves. They fall into a pile at the base of the table and Crowley doesn’t miss them at all.

“Ple-ee-ase,” he whines. Fell wouldn’t leave him like this, would he? “Sir, you can’t— ”

“I can’t?” Fell asks. He tucks himself into the V between Crowley’s legs, but keeps his hips well away from Crowley’s groin. He trails his fingers up the inside of Crowley’s naked thighs. He’s still fully dressed, the bastard. “What can’t I do?”

Crowley pants and glares and goes cross-eyed with the effort of holding back everything he wants to say. Fell is enough of a bastard not to do _ any  _ of it if Crowley says he has to. “Nfflighit”

Fell actually laughs, tipping his head back and everything. “Is that so?” he teases, eyes twinkling, as his fingers resume their unhurried trail up Crowley’s legs. Fuck, Fell’s almost to his cock _ — almost.  _ “I didn’t know that, thank you.”

“Nigggggglifk,” Crowley tries again, this time spreading his legs more apart. He doesn’t care what he looks like, how much of a slut he is. He wants Fell’s fingers _ now.  _

“Mm,” Fell says, and bends his head, kissing his way leisurely around Crowley’s belly button. “Tell me more.”

Crowley finally manages to gather enough air into his lungs. “Fuck you.”

Fell raises his head and grins. “Oh,” he says, and shifts to press the pads of his fingers firmly against Crowley’s inner thigh. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be fucking _ you.” _

Crowley’s brain short circuits at the thought. His head thunks back. “Yesss.”

Fell chuckles. The pressure of his fingers falls away but his hand slides — finally! — towards Crowley’s groin. He skirts Crowley’s cock but runs his thumb across Crowley’s balls, down his perineum and then across his hole. Crowley bucks up into it. Fell shifts and presses a kiss onto the outside of Crowley’s knee. “Like that, do you?”

“Yes,” Crowley pants. “More.” After a moment. “Please.”

“Mm,” Fell hums. “It’s the ‘please’ that makes it, you know.”

“Please, please, pleas— Mmpth!” Crowley stops, shocked, as Fell slides two of his other fingers into Crowley’s mouth. “Nuuugh.”

Fell looks down at him and crooks a grin. “Better?”

Crowley groans. His eyes roll back as he focuses on the so-good-too-good feeling of Fell’s fingers in his mouth. “Muahhh.” He sucks hard. 

Fell chuckles and looks up. His eyes slide from Crowley then across the table, and Crowley feels him tense the moment he remembers they have an audience. To his credit, he doesn’t let that stop him for long. He starts to thrust his fingers in and out of Crowley’s mouth, dragging them across his tongue, then lets go of Crowley’s ass to reach for something across the table. Crowley tries to look but the pressure of Fell’s fingers keeps his head down, and the pleasure of Fell sliding in and out of his mouth effectively distracts him. He doesn’t realize Fell has found lube — or oil, or butter, or fuck, whatever it is, Crowley doesn’t care _ what  _ right now — until he feels Fell’s finger circling his hole again, this time wet and drenched.

“NnnUuugh,” Crowley moans, shoving himself back onto Fell’s finger as much as he can.

Fell chuckles, softer than he had before, and bends to press a kiss to the underside of Crowley’s ear. He brushes his thumb against Crowley’s hole without actually pushing in. “Patience, sweetheart.”

The pet name combined with the clear affection in his voice is almost enough to send Crowley over the edge. If he had any kind of pressure on his cock he would’ve come right there. He doesn’t, though, so he’s left jerking into the air, turning purple, probably. Crowley whines and sucks harder at Fell’s fingers. He wants to be getting fucked _ now.  _

“Mm,” Fell says, and licks at the side of Crowley’s mouth. It’s shockingly erotic, his tongue tracing the corner of Crowley’s lips, while his fingers pump into and out of Crowley’s mouth and his other hand plays with his ass. “Yes, darling, that’s right, so good for me, aren’t you?”

Crowley tips his head back as much as he’s able and whines. A moment later the sounds he’s making go supersonic, deafening any dogs within hearing distance, as Fell’s index finger actually breaches his hole.

“There you go, there you go,” Fell is murmuring into his ear. “Good boy, so good, you can take it, can’t you? That’s good, yes. So good for me, dear.”

Crowley’s crying out, he can’t help it, he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. It’s all a jumble of _ yes  _ and _ please  _ and _ now,  _ anyway. Which doesn’t matter because Fell is fucking him gently now, fingers in his mouth and fingers in his ass, Fell’s tongue licking at the corner of his mouth while he spills sweet nothings into Crowley’s ear. “So good, look at you taking it, what a beautiful boy.”

Crowley very quickly loses track of time. He has no idea how long he’s been here, doesn’t quite remember where _ here  _ is and would probably forget if someone told him. All he knows is Fell — Fell is everywhere. Fell’s scent, Fell working him up and holding him down. Fell has one finger inside of him, and then two, and maybe a third, he doesn’t know. There’s a shift and then Fell is drawing carefully out of him, and Crowley whines. Fell hushes him. “Good boy, sweet boy, so good for me. Patience, darling.”

He doesn’t want to be patient, he doesn’t care, he just wants— 

Oh.

Yes.

_ Fuck.  _

Fell — the fucking, evil bastard — chuckles. “Is that what you want?”

Crowley’s breath hitches and he moans. He realizes then that Fell’s fingers are out of his mouth but that’s okay because he has one hand on each of Crowley’s knees and he’s standing between him and his cock — oh _ god  _ Fell’s cock is _ fucking  _ him, Fell is _ inside  _ him and— 

“So good,” Fell is saying. Crowley manages to open his eyes long enough to see that Fell is still fully dressed — the _ asshole —  _ but his fly is open and his cock is out and he’s thrusting into Crowley while his head is tipped back. Fell’s own eyes are closed and his hips barely move. He’s thrusting oh-so carefully into Crowley’s ass. “So good, I knew you would be.”

Crowley is so far beyond words he can do nothing but moan. He hooks his legs behind Fell’s knees and tries to draw Fell in closer. Fell stops Crowley by pausing in his thrusts, opening his eyes and looking down enough to catch Crowley’s eyes. 

“No,” he says, and his tone is far too steady even as his voice sounds hoarse. “I go at my own speed.” He thrusts in once — hard — and then slides back, almost all the way out again. Crowley tries and fails to keep the sound he makes inside his mouth. “Is that right, my dear?”

Crowley pants and tries to move his hips, pushing himself further down onto Fell’s cock.

“I _ said,”  _ Fell bites out sharply, almost — almost, almost, almost! — pulling out of Crowley completely. “I go at my own speed.”

Crowley says something high pitched and unintelligible.

“What was that?” Fells still — still! — hovering right there at the edge. “Use your words, my dear.”

“Yy— yyee— yess,” Crowley manages. He’s a stuttering mess. He couldn’t care less. “Yes.” __

Fell rolls his hips slowly, so freaking slowly, before almost pulling out again. “Yes, what?”

Crowley glares up at the stars and whines. His hands clench, nails digging into his palms as he fights to keep himself from moving. “Yes, you— you go at— at your own speed, fuck!” He shouts as Fell rewards him by pushing in again. 

“Very good, darling, yes. At my own speed.”

Crowley whimpers as Fell proceeds to completely fuck his brains out. The world goes sharp and dazzlingly bright as Fell fucks him slow and then fast, shallowly and then hard, bottoming out and then nearly pulling free again. He groans when he feels the cotton of Fell’s pants against the back of his thighs, moans when Fell digs his hands under Crowley’s hips to change the angle of his thrust, and scares more dolphins when Fell finally begins to lose his rhythm and fuck him senseless. 

“Yes— Crowley— So good— Yes,” Fell pants. He’s swelling further, getting harder, and Crowley almost sobs, he wants it so much. “You’re good, you’re so good, you’re— ”

Crowley’s back arches as he comes. Something about that final thrust causes sparks to go off behind Crowley’s eyes. Without a hand on his cock he’s coming, too, whatever’s left inside of him splashing his chest and staining Fell’s shirt. Fell groans and falls forward, hands bracketed on either side of Crowley’s head, and Crowley inhales the sweet, spicy, perfect scent of him.

Exhaustion steals over him fast, dragging him under. With his release, it’s as if the stress, anxiety, fear, and sexual frustration of the past several days falls apart at once. Blackness encroaches on his vision and quickly over takes him.

“Fucking perfect,” Crowley says, or tries to. He’s not sure his words are even intelligible. He would ask Fell about it, except he can’t, because Crowley’s already asleep. 

  
  
  
  



	10. Chapter Ten

  
  


Crowley wakes up in an airplane.

He’s on a couch again, head pillowed on something soft — a thigh— and someone’s hands are running through his hair. He’s relaxing again before he has consciously realized that it’s Fell. 

“— I’ll have to check in,” Fell is saying. “Gabriel will be expecting that.”

Crowley cracks an eye open and sees Michael. She’s seated across from them, waving a hand. “Yes, yes, of course, and you’ll use the opportunity to tell him what a wonderful weekend you had.” She grins meanly. “Nothing but the truth, am I right?”

Fell’s thigh tenses under Crowley’s cheek but other than that he ignores the jab. “What do you want me to tell him about what I’ve learned? The purpose of the trip was to try and identify the leader of the third network, after all.”

Michael laughs. “The third network? Oh my, that sounds like one of Gabriel’s ridiculous code names. Just tell him that you’ve done well and insinuate that you’ve got big news to share, but that you can’t talk now.”

“He’ll expect to meet with me in the morning,” Fell warns. “Once he knows I’m back in London he’ll want a face-to-face.” 

Michael throws him a pitying look. “Don’t insult me, Aziraphale. I know my brother better than that. You’ve gone a week or more undercover without meeting with him. He worries, but he doesn’t rush things. He trusts you to do your job.” She smiles coldly. “And so do I.”

Fell grinds his teeth but looks away. His fingers tighten in Crowley’s hair. “What do you propose, then?”

Michael smiles. “Call him as you normally would. Stay in character while you do. He’ll expect that you’re being observed — which are you — and understand that you can’t say much. We only need him to remain unsuspicious until tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow?” Fell asks. “What happens then?”

Michael shrugs and looks out the window. Crowley doesn’t know where they are, but the sky is dark and there’s nothing to see but clouds. “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

Fell’s expression darkens. He opens his mouth to say something and Crowley decides a distraction is in order. He shifts and stretches. “Mm!” Both Fell and Michael look at him. Zuriel does, too. Crowley hadn’t seen her sitting on a nearby chair. She’s got paper files spread over her lap.

“Good evening, my dear,” Fell says. His entire expression softens. “How did you sleep?”

Crowley makes a face. He’s got a crick in his neck and shoulders are stiff. Not to mention his ass. He’s not in pain, exactly, it’s just... been a while. “Not too bad, considering.” He rolls his head back and forth and looks around. He’s pretty sure this is the same plane they used on the trip down. “How long was I out?”

“Not long,” Fell assures him. “Maybe ninety minutes or so. We left shortly after— ” his expression darkens. Crowley reaches down and squeezes Fell’s leg. He has no regrets. Sure, his ass is sore and the company hadn’t been great, but the sex had been fantastic. And hey, they’re both still alive. Fell sighs and manages a faint smile. “— Well, we left after. I carried you to the plane.”

Crowley ignores the frisson that darts up his spine at the idea of Fell carrying him — how strong _ is  _ he? — and glances over himself. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on at dinner. Someone put his pants back on, though his underwear is, thankfully, nowhere to be found. Fell is wearing the same outfit, too. Neither of them are dressed for the cool air of the cabin, and now that he’s awake, Crowley realizes he’s half chilled. The breezy cotton fabric was not meant for air conditioned cabins. “Did someone pack a change of clothes?”

Zuriel smiles. “Yes, actually. Loisin grabbed a couple of things from your room before we left.” She puts down her papers — blocks of text with long columns of numbers. Shipping manifests, maybe? — and stands. There’s a garment bag hanging on a hook behind her chair. “Your old clothes are here, pressed and laundered, and a few things Loisin thought might be more comfortable for today. I’m sorry you didn’t have the chance to choose them yourself. Not quite the full service experience we had promised, I’m afraid.”

Crowley blinks at her. “That’s what you decide to apologize for?”

Zuriel grins. It has an edge of her old wickness behind it. “Yes.”

Crowley shakes his head and sits up. “Great. Listen, can I go change? There must be a bathroom nearby.”

Michael waves a hand towards the rear of the plane. “Go ahead. We won’t land for another hour or so.”

Crowley nods and stands up from the couch. He looks down at Fell. Their eyes meet. God, Crowley wants to say so much. He doesn’t regret it, he really doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t more to say. ‘Thank you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘are you okay?’ Fell bites his bottom lip and looks like he wants to say the same. Zuriel is here though, and Michael. 

Crowley settles for a shaky smile. He’s alive, Fell’s alive, they’ll be time to reassure one another later. 

Maybe.

Crowley turns away, takes the garment bag down from the hook, and starts down the aisle. This is definitely the same plane they took on the way down. The bathroom is at the end, just like he remembers. There’s maybe a different set of towels stacked by the sink, and a new square of soap in the dispenser, but that’s all. 

He hangs up the bag and turns on the shower. The thought intrudes that he’s here again, on the same plane, in the same shower, and yet so much has changed. The risk to his life is much more immediate now, and much more personal. They’ve learned a lot in the past twenty four hours, most of it being that they’re screwed. Well, Crowley just _ got  _ screwed. Fell is _ getting  _ screwed. Aaaand he needs to shut his brain up now, because the visual image of Michael screwing Fell is not a good one.

At all.

Crowley shakes his head and decides to focus on one thing at a time. Get undressed. Shower. Put on new clothes. That’s a clean, clear list he can follow. 

Okay. Step one.

The shower doesn’t take long to heat up. Crowley winces at the first touch of hot water on his ass — it really _has_ been a while — but once he gets used to the pressure the shower feels wonderful. His back and shoulders relax and his neck thanks him profusely. 

He enjoys it for a full five minutes and then reluctantly steps out. Toweling off the last of the water, he unzips the garment bag Loisin had packed for them. Inside he finds a t-shirt, jeans, and a long sleeved blue henley. Behind them is a set of clothes that must be for Fell, a beige button up that’s wider in the chest than something Crowley would wear and a pair of soft, tan trousers. At the back of the bag are their old clothes on a hanger. Crowley feels some nameless emotion when he touches the black shirt Fell had cut holes into that first night. It’s regret and lust and nostalgia and sorrow somehow combined into one. Clearing his throat, he turns his attention to the bottom of the bag. Where’s the underwear? 

The bottom of the bag is heavier than the top. Crowley rummages around and pulls out a pair of sneakers. He wonders idly if everything fits because Michael sent someone to break into his apartment and rifle through his things. At last he finds underwear and socks tucked behind the shoes. He’s taking them out when his fingers brush against something metallic.

Crowley’s breath catches in his throat. His fingers close and he withdraws the beautiful, diamond-plated snake belt he’d worn that first night on the yacht. Is it real? He stares at it, hardly daring to breath. It _ is  _ real. It’s the belt Fell had given him, the one he’d wrapped around his waist before they left for the party.

The one that has the transmitter to Beeze inside of it.

Crowley pinches his lips together and doesn’t make a sound. He’s not sure if the bathroom is bugged but he’s not willing to take the chance. Moving quickly, he pulls on the clothes Loisin had provided and then threads the snake belt through loops in his jeans. Maybe Zuriel never realized they’d been bugged, maybe no one had removed the transmitter from the belt, maybe Beeze is still listening for the signal. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe...

Crowley leans towards the mirror and fusses with his hair, using the opportunity to give himself a stern glare. He’s got no way of knowing if the transmitter is active. The best thing for him to do would be to plan for both scenarios. Either belt is working or it isn’t. If it is, it’ll kick in sometime after they land in London. Crowley should do everything he can to say plans out loud and pick out details. At the same time, he’ll have to assume that he and Fell are on their own and work on extraditing themselves accordingly.

How, he has no idea. Crowley’s never been taken hostage before. He hopes very much that Fell has some idea what to do to get them out of this. He probably does. He probably has multiple plans, ordered alphabetically, cross-referenced to likely chance of success. If only they could _ talk _ to each other. Two minutes, that’s all they’d need. 

Crowley sighs. They won’t get two minutes. They probably won’t even get one. They’ll likely have Zuriel or Michael with them at all times, monitoring every touch and glance they share, so they’re going to have to keep quiet and trust each other to get through this. Crowley runs his hands through his hair. Trust, at least, isn’t going to be an issue. He’s been trusting Fell since this op began. He’s not about to stop now.

Leaving the bag with Fell’s things on the hanger, Crowley opens the door to the bathroom. He abandons his old clothes in the same place he had last time and makes his way to the front of the plane. Fell is still sitting where Crowley had left him. He’s on the sofa, with his hands laced together on his knees, and Crowley knows it’s supposed to look casual, but he can see the tightness in the lines around Fell’s eyes. 

Damn, he wishes he could just pull the other man into a hug. He can’t do that, though, so he offers a smile instead. “Shower felt good, sir. Your turn.”

Fell looks up and meets his eyes. Crowley catches his breath. Fell doesn’t look angry, or sad, or irritated. Instead he looks _ determined.  _ He looks like he’s promising Crowley something, like he’s swearing that — somehow — he’ll get them out of this. 

Crowley exhales. He nods. Fell _ will  _ save them. He’s sure of it. 

Fell relaxes. “Thank you, dear boy. You didn’t use up all the hot water, did you?”

Crowley laughs softly and extends a hand. “Not even close.” Fell reaches for him and Crowley pulls him up. They stand for a moment in each other’s space. Finally, after too long and too short a time, Fell squeezes his hand.

Crowley lets go and steps back. “I left the bag there for you.”

“Good idea,” Fell says, and moves towards the aisle. Crowley, remembering the belt, shoves his hands into his pockets. The movement draws Fell’s eyes to his waist. Crowley can see the moment Fell gets it, because he blinks. 

It’s a subtle tell. Crowley’s watching for it, so he sees it, but Fell looks away and continues down the aisle without missing a step. Crowley breathes out a sigh and sinks onto the couch. Okay, then. They’re on the same page.

“Touching,” Michael says. Crowley startles and looks over. She’s tucked her legs underneath her hips and has angled herself towards the window, apparently so she can watch the clouds and the dark night sky. She’s looking back at Crowley now, though. Her expression is amused. “I’ve known Aziraphale for a long time and I’ve never seen him this interested in anyone before. The odd casual hookup, of course, and he brought a date to an office party Gabriel dragged me to once, but nothing like this.” Her smile gains an edge Crowley can’t identify. “He’s quite smitten with you.”

Crowley isn’t sure what to say to that. “I’m, uh, pretty taken with him, too.”

Michael’s expression turns cold. “Yes, I know. That’s why you’ll cooperate, won’t you? Because you know that for all that I like him, I’ll kill him in a heartbeat if I have to.”

Crowley breathes slowly out through his nose. “Yes,” he says eventually. He meets her eyes. “I do.”

Her lips twitch up. “Good.” She turns and goes back to staring out of the window.

Crowley licks his lips, swallows, and does the same.

  
  


*

  
  


The plane lands gracefully just over an hour later, descending onto a private airfield near the outskirts of London. Michael disappears into the bathroom as soon as they’re down and emerges a minute later in a pilot’s uniform, complete with cap tucked under one arm. She knocks on the door at the front of the plane and someone Crowley presumes is the actual pilot steps out. He’s a short, burly man, still adjusting the light brown blazer he’s clearly just thrown on, and he’s carrying a desert eagle.

Crowley, surprised by the gun, almost misses the first half of what Michael says next.

“And then Aziraphale, you and the detective will go with Zuriel and Sandalphon back to Douglas’s flat. As far as anyone watching knows, you’ve just completed a successful infiltration and are now a trusted member of the inner circle.” She smiles. “Not wholly a fantasy, is it? As for me, I have a couple of errands to run. I’ll meet you at the apartment in a couple of hours.”

Fell doesn’t look like he’s even noticed the gun. All of his attention is on Michael. “I have to call your brother first. He’ll expect some sort of a check in.”

She holds his gaze for a moment. Fell doesn’t move. Eventually, Michael nods. Zuriel pulls a phone from her purse and hands it to Fell. Crowley recognizes it as the burner phone Fell had shown him that first night in his apartment. Fell takes it with a nod.

“No funny business,” Michael says seriously. “Faked deaths can just as easily become real deaths, you know.”

Fell glances at the pilot once before replying. He clearly has seen the gun. “I know.” He dials a number from memory and holds the phone up to his ear. 

The rest of the plane is dead silent. Crowley can easily hear the ringtone on the other end. The phone clicks and then Gabriel’s slightly tinny voice comes over. _ “Hello?” _

“It’s me,” Fell says. He’s straightened his shoulders and put a slightly sneering expression on his face. He sounds like he had when he’d first been impersonating Douglas on the boat. “I’m back in town, just landed. How did the weekend go?”

_ “Fine, just fine,”  _ Gabriel says. He’s obviously playing the part of the second in command. _ “How did things go with you?”  _

“Good,” Fell says. His eyes dart to Michael. “I met some people, had a few productive meetings. It went well.”

_ “Glad to hear it,”  _ Gabriel says. He sounds honestly relieved. _ “You coming in then?”  _

“No, I’m heading back to my flat. It’s been a long weekend.” 

Gabriel sounds cautious. _ “You okay?”  _

“Yes,” Fell says. He’s still watching Michael. Her expression hasn’t changed. “Just tired.”

_ “Okay. You want some company?”  _

“No, thank you, I’ve got some. You remember Tony.”

Gabriel snorts. _ “Of course.”  _

“I’ve got a few other people with me as well. We’ll fit in a couple more meetings tonight, get things ready for the morning. We’re going to be expanding our London markets. The people I’ve been talking to have got plans.” He pauses. “Big plans.”

_ “Ah,”  _ Gabriel says. He sounds satisfied. _ “Got it. Talk to you tomorrow then.”  _

“Tomorrow,” Fell agrees, and hangs up. Zuriel holds out her hand and Fell gives her back the phone.

“Well done,” Michael says. She unfolds a pair of aviator glasses and slips them on. They complete her disguise and Crowley curses silently. No one watching her walking away would suspect she was anyone important, let alone Michael Choir, evil superbitch extraordinaire. “Follow Zuriel to the car waiting outside and lay low at the apartment. I’ll be along shortly.”

“What are you going to be doing Michael?” Crowley asks. He’s not sure if his belt is transmitting or, if it is, if Beeze is even listening, or — for that matter — if she can hear him this far out of the city. He has to try, though. “You’ve got us back to London. Now what’s the plan?”

Michael looks at him with cool amusement. “The plan, detective, is for you to follow Zuriel into the car waiting outside and lay low at the apartment. I’ll be along shortly.”

Crowley growls. The guy with the gun shifts position. Crowley shuts up.

“I see you understand,” Michael says. She’s definitely amused now. She shares a look with Zuriel and then turns away. “Until later, everyone.”

Crowley manages to keep silent as the plane door opens and a set of stairs are revealed. He walks behind Fell as they cross the tarmac and climb into the car. It’s an ordinary black limo, not a stretch, the kind that’s invisible because it’s so common. Zuriel sits in the row closest to the driver, with her back to the front of the car. The guy with the gun takes the seat next to her. 

Crowey and Fell sit in the back. Fell reaches over and squeezes Crowley’s hand and then doesn’t let go after. Crowley turns his wrist to tangle their fingers together and squeeze back. It’s remarkably comforting. Still, it’s his job to provide Beeze with information. “So, back to Douglas’s place, Michael says. How long will that take? Where are we, anyway?”

“On the outskirts of London,” Zuriel says. The car starts and she leans a little into the guy with the gun. What was his name? Sandy-something? “We’ll see what traffic is like.”

Despite the adrenalin the desert eagle is giving him, Crowley can still feel the drag of not quite enough sleep. “I hope it’s not too long, I might pass out again before we arrive.”

Zuriel shrugs. “Go ahead. You’ll have a chance to rest when we’re back at Douglas’s flat. We have a few hours until the next part in the plan.”

“Gonna tell us what that is?” Crowley tries.

Zuriel only smiles. “No.”

Crowley pulls a face. “I don’t see why Michael gets to make all the rules.” They’ve left the private airport and are approaching London proper. Crowley does his best not to fidget. Every minute gets them closer to the precinct, closer to Beeze. “Just because she’s Gabriel’s sister…”

“You’re being irritating now on purpose,” Zuriel says flatly. “While I would enjoy the opportunity to educate you on the manner and ways in which we can enforce obedience in this organization, I would prefer if you kept silent on your own. Sit quietly. Sleep, if you prefer. I will tell you nothing further.”

Crowley can think of a half dozen snarky replies to make but Fell squeezes his hand to warn him off. Crowley makes a face but squeezes back. Fine. He supposes there isn’t anything to be gained by irritating Zuriel. 

Would've been fun, though.

Turning to the window, Crowley concentrates on the scenery. Against his will, he actually does fall asleep. He blinks his eyes open when they pull to a stop. “We’re here?”

“We are,” Fell replies quietly, tugging on his hand to lead him out of the car. “This way.” He steps out of the limo and onto the street. It’s full dark outside, at least as dark as the city ever gets, so it’s probably two or three am. Zuriel walks around them to climb up the steps to Douglas’s building. She opens the door. Fell follows her in and Crowley trails after. Sandy with the gun brings up the rear. 

“Douglas has the penthouse suit,” Zuriel reminds them, her voice low. “We’ll take the stairs. No one in the building should question our presence, but let’s not tempt fate, shall we?” 

Fell nods and follows her up the stairs. They pass the spot where Crowley had arrested Douglas and Crowley grimances. It’d all seemed so much simpler then. They reach the top floor and Sandy stops at the door. He nods once at Zuriel, turns, and takes up a guard position beside the door. Zuriel unlocks the flat and steps inside. Crowley has half a second to hope wildly that Beeze and a half dozen badges are waiting for her, but sighs when it’s clear that there isn’t.

Crowley walks into the flat and groans. The penthouse is just as ostentatious as he would have expected. Hardwood floors, cheesy lighting, and modern, uncomfortable-looking furniture. Crowley is self-aware enough to realize he might have designed his own flat along these lines had he not been dating Anathema when he got it, though he’s sure he wouldn’t have added the trying-too-hard giltz Douglas had. Crystal cut wine glasses _ and  _ mirror-sheen pillows? Please.

Crowley sighs. Ah hell, maybe he would have, who knows?

He makes a mental note to say thank you to Anathema again when he tries to sprawl out on the sofa and can’t. “Come on, what is this thing made out of? Rocks?”

Zuriel grins. “It’s that or the floor, detective. Your choice. Mr Fell will be taking the bedroom.”

Fell looks away from his peruse of the room to raise an eyebrow at her. “I will?”

Zuriel nods. “We have a couple of hours, you should both get some sleep. Tomorrow will be busy enough for all of us.”

“What about you?” Crowley asks.

Zuriel’s expression turns impish. “I slept before dinner. I was quite worn out by your performance on the yacht the night before.”

Crowley blushes. Dammit. This woman has seen too much of him. “Great.”

“So I’ll be staying out here with you while Mr Fell will have a chance to sleep in a real bed.”

Fell shakes his head. “Crowley should get the bed, I can take the couch.”

Zuriel crosses her arms. “My lady disagrees.”

Fell’s expression darkens. “Michael can give you orders as much as she likes. _ I  _ say Crowley deserves to actually rest.”

“And _ my lady  _ says you need to sleep because you’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“I am perfectly— ”

“Hey,” Crowley interrupts. He’s uncomfortably aware that there’s a man with a gun standing outside the door and the only person he’ll listen to is Zuriel. “It’s fine. I’ve slept on worse.”   
  


Fell looks as though he wants to continue arguing, so Crowley goes on. “I could do with some pillows and blankets, though.” He looks at Fell. “Will you help me search?”

Fell grinds his teeth. After a moment, he gives Crowley a stiff nod. “Fine.”

The flat is large but mostly open concept. There’s a kitchen, living room, and then a short hallway, with a set of frosted glass french doors at the end that lead very clearly to the master bedroom. Leading off the hallway are three additional, much more plain doors. Crowley takes the first and finds a bathroom. That is, if such a word can be used to describe the opulent tub, immense shower, and ridiculous vanity he discovers. 

Fell takes the second door. He’s hardly opened it before he’s closing it again, shaking his head and leaning back. Crowley glances inside and gets the impression of dark curtains, red carpeting, and leather. 

Lots of leather.

Making a face, Crowley turns towards the third door. It finally reveals a closet. He hunts through the shelves for a comforter and a pair of pillows. Fell steps in close behind him and Crowley bits his lip. Is there time to talk? He doesn’t need much — a quick plan, a rushed word, _ anything —  _ but Zuriel doesn’t let them. She steps close and peers over Fell’s shoulder to look at what they’ve got. “Is that enough?”

Crowley swallows whatever he was going to try and turns away from Fell with a scowl. Damn her. “Yeah. This’ll be fine.”

He makes a nest on the couch. It’s not comfortable — nothing could make this couch _ comfortable —  _ but Crowley really has slept on worse. Zuriel settles into the chair across from him. Fell walks to the french doors and then hesitates. 

Crowley looks up at him. Fell stares back. Crowley opens his mouth and then shuts it again. There must be _ something  _ he can say. Something that would give them an excuse to be alone together. 

Except if there is, he can’t think of it. Fell can’t apparently either. After a moment he purses his lips and summons a smile. It’s more of a grimace, but Crowley won’t call him on it. Instead he watches as Fell opens the door and steps inside. The door closes behind him. 

Silence.

Zuriel turns a page. Crowley looks over and sees that she’s gotten her papers out again. He signs and lays back on the couch. Maybe he could fake having to go to the bathroom and then sneak into Fell’s room?

“Stop thinking so loudly, detective.” Zuriel says without looking up. “Go to sleep.”

Crowley grimances. He turns away from Zuriel and pulls the comforter up around his shoulders. How does he get himself into these situations? Thankfully, before his subconscious can get serious about questioning his life choices, Crowley falls asleep.

He wakes up a couple of hours later. The ridiculous french doors creak slightly as they open. Crowley rolls over and chuckles to himself as Fell walks into the living room. He at least looks more rested than when Crowley had seen him last. Dawn shines palely in through the windows. “Good morning,” Crowley says. He shuffles over to make room for Fell on the couch, leaning with his back against the armrest and tucking his knees in towards his chest. “How’d you sleep?”

Fell glances at Zuriel. She doesn’t look like she’s moved from the armchair on the other side of the room, except to put her papers away and pull out her phone. She’s tapping away. Fell walks to the couch and sits down in the spot made for him. “Well enough, I suppose. How about you?”

“Got a few hours,” Crowley admits. He stretches his foot out so it’s touching Fell’s knee. It’s not a lot of contact, but it settles something inside him. “I would have expected Michael to be here by now.”

Fell makes a face and shifts, laying one of his hands on Crowley’s ankle. “I would have as well.”

Crowley glances at Zuriel. She hasn’t looked up from her phone but it’s obvious that she can hear them. He drops his voice a little, anyway. Hopefully it’s still loud enough for his belt to pick up. “Any idea what Michael’s planning?”

Fell looks pensive but shakes his head. “Not entirely, no. She’s said she wants to destroy the investigation, implicate Gabriel, and fake our deaths. I assume she’ll have to get into the computer system somehow and then to the paper files. There are pieces of this case scattered in several places, though. Our local Interpol office, of course, but also on the secure cloud servers and there are a few paper files at your precinct, too. I brought them with me when I met you that first day and left them with your D.C.I. What was their name again? Beelzebub?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley says, and feels a chill of fear. “You don’t think Michael’ll go after Beeze, do you?”

“I think she’ll do everything and anything she needs to survive,” Fell says quietly, before shaking his head and patting Crowley’s leg. “Taking out a Detective Chief Inspector of the City of London Police is a serious undertaking, though.”

Zuriel hums and looks up from her phone. “Nothing we haven’t done before.” She tucks the phone away. “Look alive, gentlemen. My lady is here.”

“She’s what?” Crowley asks, but then the door of the penthouse opens and Michael walks in. 

Crowley resists the competing urge to both shrink backwards and rush forward, wanting to at once get away and sock Michael in the jaw. He manages to just tense and keep his place on the couch. Michael grins at all of them.

“Aziraphale, detective, you both look moderately refreshed.” She drops a large, heavy looking duffle at her feet and strips off what looks to be a pilfered London Utilities jacket. She swings the door shut behind her and Crowley has a half a second to see the man with the very big gun still standing guard before the door clicks shut. 

Zuriel crosses the floor and receives a kiss for her trouble. Michael hands her the jacket. Zuriel takes the garishly orange vest and moves it off to the side. Underneath, Michael is wearing a simple cream-coloured pant suit and blouse. “My goodness, Douglas’s flat is as awful as I had expected,” she says, looking around. “No taste.”

Crowley holds back a biting response as Fell puts a restraining hand on his knee. “What’s the plan, Michael?” Fell asks.

Michael grins. “The _ plan, _ my dear Aziraphale, is not yours to know. I do have a task for each of you, however, and a gift.” 

Fell frowns and looks at Crowley. They share a confused glance before looking back at Michael. “A gift?” Crowley asks. 

Michael smiles widely. “Yes, detective, a gift.” She bends down to root around in the heavy-looking duffle. “You’ve both been excellent about going where we tell you to and not fighting back, but eventually we’re going to be splitting up and Sandalphon can’t be in two places at once. I simply cannot have either you or Aziraphale deciding that last-minute heroics are the way to bring this to an end, and so— voila!” She pulls a package of something wrapped in white plastic from her bag. “For you.”

Crowley stiffens in sudden, absolute terror. That’s _ stemtex.  _ What the hell is she —? 

“You first, detective, since you so obviously volunteered.” She holds up the stemtex. “Come on, chop chop!”

Crowley doesn’t think he even _ can  _ move. He knows very well that he doesn’t want to. “No.”

“Detective,” Michael warns, “I do not enjoy repeating myself. Now I can get Sandy to come in and restrain you or you can walk here on your own but either way, this is happening.” She snaps her fingers and points. “Here. Now.” She glares. “Or else.”

Crowley swallows once and looks at Fell. He looks just as terrified as Crowley, though he hides it better. He’s sitting very, _ very  _ still. “Michael,” he says quietly. “Please don’t do this.”

Crowley’s stomach sinks. That was the wrong thing to say. He doesn’t know what the _ right  _ thing was, but it definitely wasn’t that. From the awful look in Fell’s eyes, he knows it, too. Michael only grins, a legitimately evil expression, and points again to her feet. “Detective.”

Crowley knows he has to move. 

He stands up from the couch. He makes his way to where Michael’s standing. Every step is an effort. He doesn’t dare look at Fell, because he doesn’t know what he’d do if he did. Jesus Christ, this weekend has been a mindfuck. Still, he’s a _ Detective Inspector _ . Crowley squares his jaw and firms his resolve and makes it — at last — to Michael’s feet.

Michael rewards him with a smile. She takes an ‘I HEART London’ waterproof cell phone case out her bag and loops it over Crowley’s neck. The case is black, the string is scratchy, and the entire thing hangs down at about the level of his heart. He manages to hold completely still as Michael tucks the piece of stemstex inside and then pats it once. “There you go, wear that with pride, detective. There’s a remote detonator inside the explosive that is connected to my phone. One tap and all your problems will go away.”

Crowley’s heart is trying it’s best to beat it’s way out through his chest. Despite that, he can hear Fell’s teeth grind from across the room. He manages not to look over, though his self-imposed silence is shattered the moment Michael walks over and fits Fell with his _ own  _ cell phone cover. 

“You can’t!”

Fell’s cover is white, the ‘HEART’ in ‘I HEART London’ shockingly red against the pale colour of his shirt. Michael looks back to meet Crowley’s eye and smile before going back to straightening Fell’s lapels. “Oh yes, I can. Don’t worry, detective, it’s all part of the plan. The Great Plan, you could say. If the two of you are responsible and do as you're told, you won’t be wearing these terrible things when they explode. If you disobey me, however… ” She shrugs.

Crowley clenches his hands into fists and seethes, hating Michael more than he’s ever hated anyone in his entire life. “What do you want us to do?”

Michael steps back from Fell and gestures to Zuriel. Zuriel takes Fell’s burner phone out of her purse and, at a glance from Michael, hands it to Crowley.

“First,” Michale says, “I want you to call your precinct. Make it sound as though you’ve gotten away for a couple of seconds and have an urgent message to give. Tell them Gabriel will be coming by and they are to give him all the files they have on his investigation.” She gives him a pointed look. “Turn the volume up so we can hear. Make it sound extremely urgent.”

Crowley takes a deep breath in, counts to three, and lets it out again. “Why?”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “So they gather all the files they have on the investigation and have them ready for Gabriel, of course.” She turns her attention to Fell. “When he’s done I want you to text Gabriel. Make it seem as though you’ve gotten the chance to do so when your new associates weren’t looking. Tell him to gather all his paper files on the investigation. I’m sure he’ll think you’ve discovered something important. Tell him to swing by Detective Crowley’s precinct and retrieve the copies they’ll have ready for him, then bring everything he has to the Waterdown Railing above the Hawthorn river. You’ll meet him there in one hour.”

Fell presses his lips together and glares. “Waterdown? Really?”

Michael grins, arching an eyebrow in cheeky satisfaction. Crowley looks between them, confused. “What’s the Waterdown Railing? Where’s that?”

“It’s a high spot on Waterdown street where you can look down onto the river,” Fell explains, still glaring at Michael. “I know because there used to be an old Interpol off-shoot office across the street. It was used for clandestine operations we didn’t want to advertise at our main London Headquarters.” His lips thin. “What you’re trying won’t work, Michael. You won’t be able to access Interpol files from there.”

“Oh?” Michael asks. Her smile gains an edge. “Why not?”

“Because the original building was destroyed. There are townhouses there now. There’s no way to access Interpol files from that location.”

“The original building _ was  _ destroyed,” Michael agrees, “but the electrical, plumbing, and ethernet connection boxes were not. All it took was a few keystrokes from Gabriel’s office to reconnect the wires and remind the system there was an office there. I did that years ago.” 

Fell’s nostrils flare. “How many years?”

Michael laughs. “Oh, Aziraphale. Over three.”

He closes his eyes. “Truly?”

“Yes,” Michael breezes. “I also rented the townhouse under a shell company and put Gabriel’s name on the lease. The plan to implicate my brother is not a _ new  _ one, you understand.”

Fell glares. “You promised there wouldn’t be enough evidence to convict him.”

Michael shrugs. “There probably won’t be. If there _ is,  _ however, it’s all the better for me. I’ll be able to restart operations even sooner than anticipated. We’re on a schedule today, though, so chop, chop! Crowley, you first. Make the call.”

Crowley stares blankly down at the phone. Fell clenches his hands into fists at his side, but he can’t do anything, and they both know it. Crowley takes a deep breath, raises the phone, and dials.

He cranks the volume up as ordered. “Hello?”

Crowley has never been much of an actor. He manages to affect a hurried whisper, one he might use should he be afraid someone would overhear him and discover what he’s doing. He thinks wildly of improvising some sort of code — some way to tell the precinct what’s really going on, warn them about the bombs, anything — but that hope is dashed when Eric in reception answers. “Hullo!”

Crowley closes his eyes. Damn. If it were Beeze, he might have attempted something despite the audience, but Eric doesn’t know him well enough. “Hey,” he manages around the disappointment choking his throat. “It’s me. Crowley. Gabriel Choir from Interpol is going to be there soon. Tell Beeze to gather everything we have and give it to him. It’s important.”

“Uh. Detective Inspector, sir? I can do that,” Eric agrees warily, “but why are you whispering?”

Crowley closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Because I’m _ undercover,  _ you idiot! Just tell Beeze!” He hangs up.

Michael is actually sniggering when she takes back the phone. “Oh my. London’s Finest, indeed.”

Crowley’s shoots her a look but doesn’t say anything as she hands the phone to Fell. Fell’s jaw clenches but he brings up the messaging app and begins to type. It seems to go on for some time. Crowley can’t see what he’s written but Michael and Zuriel, moving to his shoulder, both nod in satisfaction.

“Very good, gentlemen,” Michael says when he’s done. She takes the phone back from Fell and passes it to Zuriel. “To the van now. Remember, no funny business. Exploding you both isn’t part of the plan, but I can make it work. Great plans are flexible, after all.”

Crowley grinds his teeth together but doesn’t reply. Fell surprises him by reaching out and threading their fingers together, pressing their hands palm-to-palm. “We know, Michael,” he says steadily. “We’re behind you. Just go.”

Michael’s eyes glitter as she looks from him to their joined hands. “Always the sensible one, Aziraphale. Very well, onward. Oh.” She stops and glances back at Crowley’s waist. “But take that ridiculous belt off first, Detective. Diamonds with jeans? Excessive. You’re a crime against fashion.”

“As a professional criminal, I suppose you would know,” Crowley manages despite a suddenly dry throat.

Michael actually grins. “Actually yes, I would. Come on, now. Let’s go.”

  
  
  



	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. So I probably wouldn’t have written a police detective AU if I were starting this story now. Being this far along I’m going to finish it. Please be warned that this chapter involves guns and gun violence. If that’s not okay for you, that’s fine! I’ll post a short summary in the end notes of what happened.

  
  


Michael leads the way to underground parking. Crowley misses the weight of the belt around his hips as he follows her. He hopes desperately that Beeze has been listening, that they know what is going on and have had enough time to come up with a plan. Crowley sure doesn’t have one. Every time he tries to think of something, the bounce of the semtex against his chest distracts him.

Maybe Fell has a plan. Crowley watches him. He’s walking in front of Crowley, behind Michael, while Zuriel and Sandy take up the rear. He isn’t giving any kind of signal, just following Michael steadily down the stairs. Maybe that _ is  _ the signal. Maybe he’s telling Crowley to keep quiet, follow orders, and wait.

Crowley grits his teeth. He’s never been good at waiting. 

They descend through the apartment complex in silence. When they reach the bottom, Sandalphon walks around them to pull open the heavy fire-proof door to the underground parking. Michael nods at him and walks in, heading immediately for an unmarked white van. “Zuriel.”

Zuriel nods and crosses to the driver’s seat. She climbs in, checks her mirrors, and then waits with her hands on the wheel.

“Sandalphon,” Michael orders. 

Sandy steps forward. He puts his hand on the sliding door and pulls it open. It squeals slightly as he does. 

Michael looks at Fell. “Get in.”

Crowley tenses, but Fell merely nods. It’s a large van, the kind with two rows of seating in the back. Fell climbs in and settles behind the front passenger seat. Michael follows him and sits behind the driver. Sandy lets go of the door handle. He and his ridiculously large gun take up the last row in the back. 

“Uh,” Crowley says, watching them all. “Where do I…?”

“Passenger side,” Michael orders. She pulls out her phone. “You’re riding next to Zuriel.”

Crowley tenses again at the sight of her phone. Thankfully, the only thing she does is pull up Google maps. Michael catches him staring and grins. “Don’t worry, detective. If I decide to end you, I’ll tell you first.”

“Fit that last bit of gloating in?” Crowley manages.

Michael grins. “Of course.”

Crowley clenches his hands into fists but walks around to the passenger side door. Pulling it open, he climbs in. Zuriel has turned on the van and is waiting. 

Michael leans forward. “Exit and take a right.”

An awful sense of inevitability washes over Crowley as the van backs up. He hasn’t been able to come up with a plan, Fell hasn’t said a word to him, and Beeze hasn’t appeared with half the London Police to save them. He does up his seatbelt and tries to master the crushing sense of futility that’s gripped him. This isn’t over yet. There’s still a way for them to win.

Zuriel drives them out of underground parking. The sudden light makes Crowley squint and raise a hand to cover his eyes. Michael snorts. “Sunglasses are the glovebox,” she says. “Take whichever pair you like.”

Crowley shoots her an irritated look but opens the glove compartment. “Thanks,” he grumbles. “Does anyone else want… any…” He trails off as he stares, then whips around to glare at Michael.

She only grins. “What?”

Crowley’s apoplectic. “There’s a _ bomb  _ in here!” It’s tucked in the rear of the glove compartment, all cheerful wires and waiting evil. 

Fell tenses. Sandy looks smug. Michael only shrugs. “Of course there is, how did you expect to fake your death, anyway?”

“But— !”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael dismisses. “It’s tied to my phone, the same as yours. It won’t go off until I tell it to.”

Crowley grinds his teeth and glares at her phone. “Got a lot of buttons there, Ms Choir. You sure you won’t push the wrong one?”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Pray that I don’t.” She nods her head at the sunglasses. “Now give me a pair. The white and gold, please.”

Crowley breathes in harshly through his nose but turns back to the glove compartment. There are, in fact, several different pairs of sunglasses sitting next to the bomb. Crowley picks up the white and gold ones and considers ignoring the rest, except he can already feel a migraine coming on. Too much sunlight, too much stress, and not enough sleep. He throws Michael her pair and grabs a plain black set for himself. “Anyone else?”

They all decline. Crowley’s hands shake slightly as he closes the glovebox. He flexes them and stares out the window. He wants — so very badly — to fling himself out of the van. He wants to rip the semtex from his neck, open the door, and throw himself as far away from Michael as he can. He wants to hit the ground and start running. 

He wants to _ so badly,  _ but he can’t, because running would mean leaving Fell behind. 

Crowley bites his lips and crosses his arms. His knee starts to bounce. He tries to stop it and ends up tapping his fingers on the armrest instead. He can’t run, but there has to be something he can do instead. He can’t just _ sit  _ here. He has to— 

The touch to his elbow startles him. Crowley jerks around and stares. It’s Fell. He’s leaning forward from the back seat, a small but reassuring smile on his face. This time it reaches his eyes. He squeezes Crowley’s elbow and then lets go, leaning back. Michael rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything. Crowley exhales.

Okay. He needs to calm down. Fell has a plan. Fell _ has  _ to have a plan. Fell definitely has a plan and Crowley will miss his part in it if he’s not careful. He needs to take a deep breath and stay alert. There will be a moment. He doesn’t know when it will be or what it will look like, but he has to trust that his gut will recognize it when it comes. There will be a moment and then they’ll act. They’ll work together and they’ll get out of this.

They have to.

They eventually make it to Waterdown street. It’s aptly named. On one side of the street is a row of townhouses separated by a thin alley. On the other side is a river. The water level is low. Michael taps on her phone as they round the final corner. “We’re here. Number Six-sixty-eight.”

The townhouses are on Zuriel’s side of the van. Crowley looks past her to number six-sixty-eight. It looks exactly the same as number six-seventy and six-seventy-two. All are three-story brick buildings, expensive in a way Crowley will never be able to afford, and very clearly new construction. 

Crowley’s side of the street is empty. There are no townhouses there. Instead there’s a sidewalk and then the railing. 

The railing is very thick. It looks sturdy. Probably a good thing, since it’s there to keep people from falling into the river. Crowley can’t see the water from here but he knows it’s twenty or so feet down. 

The street around them is nearly empty. There’s a couple walking hand-in-hand, a variety of parked cars, and the honk of distant traffic. The road slopes downward and to the left, curving to meet up with a round-a-bout that connects to three other streets. Traffic bustles there, reassuring and normal. Here it feels like someone has hit the pause button. It makes Crowley uneasy. 

He turns his attention to the people in the van. Zuriel is sitting in the driver's seat, looking calm. Sandy is waiting unhurried in the back. Michael is tapping on her phone. Fell is sitting with his hands in his lap, his shoulders straight, the determination Crowley had seen earlier clear in his eyes. 

They make eye contact for a moment. Fell smiles — just a twitch of his lips — and turns to Michael. “Well, Michael,” he says. “We’re here. What now?”

Michael smiles and tucks her phone away. “Now you do exactly as I tell you. Zuriel, you have the best view. Is there any sign of my wayward brother?”

Zuriel looks up and down the street before shaking her head. “No,” she says. “There’s no sign of him.”

“Excellent,” Michael says. “We should still have about twenty minutes but Gabriel does so enjoy being early. Now listen, everyone, timing will be critical. Aziraphale, you, Zuriel, and I will exit the van and enter the townhouse. I will connect to Interpol and begin wiping information from their drives. Aziraphale, I expect you to help me find and destroy every file. Sandalphon, you will stay here with the good detective. When Gabriel appears you will make sure that he’s alone. Detective, you will then exit the van, cross the street, and take the files from Gabriel. When that’s done, you’ll return here. Once back in the van you will have sixty seconds to shift from the front seat to the back seat and out the side door.” 

Crowley frowns. “What happens after sixty seconds?”

Michael’s gaze is steady. “The van will explode.”

Crowley’s mouth drops open. 

Michael smiles. “Zuriel will be watching from inside the townhouse. The angle isn’t great so she won’t be able to see either of you after you exit the van. Keep the van between yourself and Gabriel and move to the alleyway between the houses. There are two doors there. Take the one on the left, it leads to number six-seventy.” She turns to Fell. “The explosion will rattle the house. Aziraphale, I want you to go to the front door and open it. Stare at the van and shout something appropriate. ‘Detective!’ or some such should do nicely. This will draw Gabriel’s attention. He’ll be looking directly at you. That’s when the secondary explosion will go off.”

“Jesus Christ, woman,” Crowley swears. “Did you get a two-for-one discount or what?”

Michael ignores him. “The explosion will be in the back of the house. Aziraphale, you will close the door and run back inside. Gabriel will most likely begin running towards the front door. Sandalphon, you’ll distract him by firing in his general direction. _ Not  _ with real bullets, the goal is to frame him, not kill him. There are blanks waiting for you in number six-seventy. All of this will buy the rest of us the time to exit through the side door and meet you in six-seventy. When we’re together, but before Gabriel can run inside the other house, I will trigger the third and final explosion. This one will destroy number six-sixty-eight entirely. In the end, Aziraphale and the detective will be ‘dead,’ all progress made on the investigation will be destroyed, and Gabriel will be both the only witness and the only suspect. Any questions?”

Crowley puts up his hand. 

Michael rolls her eyes. “Yes?”

“Do you actually have all of this on your phone? Or are we running against the clock here?”

She raises an eyebrow. “It’s on my phone. There are no timers in place, which means if you disobey me, or do anything to alter the plan, I can have Sandalphon shoot you and dump you in the van before it explodes.” She waits a beat. “Anyone else?”

Fell purses his lips. “How are we going to escape the scene without Gabriel noticing?”

“Number six-seventy shares another alley with six-seventy-two. We’ll take it and follow the alley north to Milldale street. A second van is waiting for us there.” 

Crowley tries desperately to think of something — anything — she’s overlooked. Nothing comes to mind. “I, uh,” he tries anyway.

Michael shoots him a withering look. “What?”

“Well, ah, what do you want me to say to Gabriel? He’s expecting Fell, not me.”

“He knows the two of you are working together,” Michael says, irritated. “Make something up.” 

“Sure,” Crowley says. “But— ”

“I’m prepared to accept that you’re not as stupid as you look, detective,” Michael says warningly. “Do not prove me wrong.”

Crowley clenches his teeth together. In the silence that follows, Zuriel’s purse hums.

Michael looks over. “What’s that?”

Zuriel digs out Fell’s burner phone. It’s vibrating. “Text from Gabriel.” She unlocks the phone and looks at it. “It reads, ‘Remind me to avoid the London Police. Just got a lecture from that weird guy in reception about pronouns. Anyways, got everything. On my way now. You there?’”

Crowley can’t help but grin. Good ol’ Eric. Fell is smiling slightly, too. 

Michael rolls her eyes. “My idiot brother strikes again. Reply back to him, Zuriel.” She looks over at Crowley and raises an eyebrow. “Tell him the detective will meet him on the rail.”

Zuriel nods and begins typing out the message. Michael narrows her eyes. “Detective, your job is to get the files and get back in the van. Sandalphon will be watching. Do you understand?”

Crowley hates this. He hates that he can’t do anything but nod. Maybe he can find some way to warn Gabriel. Sandalphon will be watching but he’ll be stuck in the van. Maybe he can…

“Oh,” Michael says, “and just to be certain.” She holds out her hand for the phone. Zuriel hits ‘send’ and then passes it to her. Michael pulls out her personal cell and then uses the burner phone to dial her own number. When her phone rings, she puts it on speaker. 

“There,” she says, handing the burner phone to Crowley. Her voice is now coming in stereo. “Stick that in your pocket and leave it on. I want to hear everything.”

Crowley curses her inventively inside his head. Glaring, he takes the phone. Having nowhere else to put it, he slips it into the ‘I HEART London’ cell phone case next to the semtex and tries to ignore the chill it gives him. 

Michael smiles. “Excellent.” She puts her own phone on mute and then slips it into her blouse. Reaching back, she opens the van’s sliding door. “Aziraphale, Zuriel, you’re with me. Sandalphon, stay hidden but come up closer. I want you to see everything without Gabriel seeing you.”

Sandy nods and waits for everyone to step out before walking around to the side of the van. “Michael,” Crowley tries. He _ has  _ to try. “Don’t do this. There must be another way.”

“This is the plan, detective,” Michael tells him. “Stick to it.” Sandy climbs into Michael’s old seat. Michael nods to Fell. Fell puts his hand on the sliding door, prepared to close it.

“Sir,” Crowley manages. His voice breaks on the word. He can’t— He can’t just do _ nothing —  _

Fell looks at him. “You can do this,” he says. He extends his hand and reaches over. Crowley reaches back. It’s not enough, it’ll _ never  _ be enough. “Just do as Michael tells you. It’ll be okay.”

Crowley chokes back a sound. He doesn’t _ want  _ to do what Michael tells him. He wants Fell to whip out a miracle and save their asses. He wants _ something.  _

He gets a handshake. And a crinkle of paper in his palm. 

Crowley bites his bottom lip. He manages not to look down and jerks his head in a nod instead. “Yes, sir,” he manages. “Be careful. Please.”

“You, too,” Fell says. Their eyes meet. For a moment Crowley thinks he sees terror behind Fell’s eyes, but then he blinks and it’s all determination again. Fell squeezes one last time and then lets go.

Crowley licks his lips and watches Fell close the door. It squeals as he does. Michael shoots it a glare but there’s clearly nothing that can be done about it at this point. She turns towards the house. There are only two steps to get into it. Michael takes them first and then Zuriel and Fell follow. 

Crowley watches them go. He keeps his fingers clenched around his palm as he brings both hands together on his lap. He’s aching to read whatever Fell gave him. His plan is to use the seat to shield the piece of paper from Sandy, but before he can, Sandy grunts and moves from Michael’s seat to Zuriel’s. 

Crowley glares at him. “What are you doing? Michael said to stay in the back.”

“No,” Sandy grunts. “She said to watch you and make sure Gabriel doesn’t see me.” He tilts Zuriel’s chair back, adjusting it so he’s half-laying, half-sitting in the driver’s seat. Then he slouches even more. “There,” he says, sounding smugly self-satisfied. “Now it looks like there’s only one person in the van.”

Crowley mutters incentives against Sandy’s mother under his breath. 

Sandy scowls and pulls his gun from it’s holster. “What did you say?”

Crowley doesn’t back down. “I said— ” he begins hotly.

“Boys,” Michael interrupts. She sounds amused. “Play nice.”

Sandy narrows his eyes but settles back in his seat. Crowley clenches his hands together and looks out the window. Damn it. There’s no way he can read Fell’s message now. There’s no way he can warn Gabriel either, not without tipping Michael off.

Crowley grits his teeth and glares at the railing. There’s no way to do anything, in fact, but wait. 

And pray.

_ I don’t know if anyone is out there,  _ Crowley mutters in the privacy of his own head, _ but we could really use some help right now. _

He’s not surprised when nobody answers.

Time passes slowly. Michael doesn’t say anything else. She must have muted her phone again. Crowley tries to look into the townhouse but can’t see anything past the grey-curtained windows. The street stays mostly quiet. A woman walks by once with an umbrella. A jogger passes them on his run. There’s still no sign of Gabriel. Crowley keeps his hands clenched together and wonders what’s going on inside the house.

Finally a cab pulls off the round-about and heads up the street. Crowley watches it carefully, then turns his head to see Sandy is doing the same. It stops at the rail. There’s some movement from inside and then someone gets out.

It’s definitely Gabriel. He’s wearing the same stupid, tailored overcoat he’d worn to the station the first time they’d met. He turns around to pay the cabbie and Crowley can see several brown folders tucked under one arm. The cab drives away. Gabriel scans the street. He looks at their van but pays it no more attention than he does the other parked cars. 

Sandy nods to himself and then reaches over to pick up Crowley’s ‘I HEART London’ sleeve. “He’s here, ma’am.”

Crowley scowls and tips his head back, trying to pull the phone out of Sandy’s grip. He knows that handling the semtex won’t set it off, but this is _ his  _ bomb, dammit! Sandy can get his own.

Sandy curls his lip but lets the phone go. It bounces back against Crowley’s chest.

From the phone comes the sound of rustling. “What did you say?” Michael asks. She sounds distracted.

Sandy frowns. “Gabriel, ma’am. He’s here.”

“He is?” They can hear clicking. “There are more files there than anticipated. I’m getting through but I need another ten minutes. Stall him.”

Crowley frowns and looks down at the phone. “Stall him?”

“Yes,” Michael says, snippily. “Stall him.”

Crowley glares. “How?”

“I don’t know,” Michael growls. “Walk slowly, draw him out, do whatever you need to do, but _ stall  _ him. And keep this line open.” The phone goes quiet.

Crowley blinks and looks over at Sandy. Sandy looks steadily back. “Okay,” Crowley says slowly. “Stall him.” He puts his palm on the handle and pops open the door. His other hand is still tightly curled around the paper Fell had slipped him. 

Sandy lifts his gun slightly. “I’ll be watching.”

“Course you will,” Crowley grumbles. He closes the door and steps away from the van.

Gabriel looks over his shoulder and sees him. He doesn’t say anything, just waits for Crowley to cross the street. Crowley takes his time. He looks both ways once and then twice. He tries something approximating his usual saunter and is unsurprised when it comes out as more of a jerky amble. He feels like a spring that’s been wound too tightly. He is very aware of the cell phone and semtex sitting maliciously on his chest.

Gabriel rests one elbow on the rail and raises an eyebrow. Crowley suppresses a sigh. He can see the resemblance again. This is _ definitely  _ Michael’s brother. But then Gabriel’s expression tightens and Crowley remembers that whatever else, Gabriel is Fell’s partner, too.

“You’re late,” Gabriel says. “Why couldn’t Aziraphale be here?”

“He couldn’t get away,” Crowley says. He’s amazed at how steady his voice sounds. He wants to look over his shoulder but doesn’t dare. He knows Sandy’s watching. He can feel the bastard’s eyes on him. “He sent me in his place.”

“Got it,” Gabriel says. His words come out easy but his gaze travels carefully over Crowley, looking him up and down. He frowns particularly at the cell phone case. “Glad to hear the weekend went well. Was it very difficult?”

Crowley makes a sound that might have been a laugh. “Yeah, well, it was… challenging, that’s for sure. Your partner was a big help.”

“I’m sure he was,” Gabriel says. There’s a smirk in his voice but none in his eyes. He looks around once before handing Crowley the files. “Aziraphale asked me to pick these up for him. I grabbed everything I could.”

Crowley can feel his heart start to pound in his chest. Crap. Michael’s evil plan is working. “Glad to hear it. He’ll be pleased.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel says. He nods at the files. “Go ahead and have a peak, make sure I got what he wanted.”

Crowley starts to say no but then remembers that he’s supposed to be trying to stall. He nods instead and looks down at the pile of folders in his hands. Moving slowly he opens the first one, and then stops. He blinks.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. It takes him a minute. “Yeah, this looks good.”

The first file is thin, so thin it contains only a single sheet of paper. The paper is nearly blank, except for the words ‘GOT YOUR MESSAGE’ on it in big bold letters. Crowley recognizes Beeze’s blocky lettering. Underneath that someone else has written ‘AWARE OF BOMB. CREW STANDING BY.’

“Thanks for this,” Crowley says. His voice is steady — thank God his voice is steady — but his mind is spinning in five directions at once. “You know your partner always likes to have his paperwork done.”

Gabriel chuckles. The sound is once again sincere in his voice and absent on his face. Damn. Crowley maybe should have given this guy more credit. He’s good. “That he does. Any idea when he’s going to be available? No offense, but I want to go over some particulars of the case with him.”

“No offense taken,” Crowley says. “He’s, ah, he’s stuck inside right now. Working.” Crowley tries to indicate the safe house without looking away from Gabriel or giving Sandy any idea that they’re talking about two things at once. “Not sure if he’ll be able to get away.”

Gabriel glances down the street and then turns slightly to face the rail. It puts his back to the van. He hooks a hand into his jacket. It takes Crowley a moment to realize that his thumb is pointing back towards the safe house and there’s a questioning look on his face. “That’s too bad, they’ve really got him boxed in, don’t they? At least that means they’re buying the ‘Douglas’ thing, still.”

“For now,” Crowley warns, blinking once to tell Gabriel that yes, Fell is inside the safe house. If that’s what he was asking. “I don’t know how long it’ll hold.”

“Give me an estimate,” Gabriel wheedles. His eyes are as intent as his voice now. “What’s your best guess? How long can Aziraphale infiltrate these guys?”

Crowley forces himself to make a humming noise. “Hard to say. We’re at _ three  _ days now,” he says, adjusting his I HEART London sleeve in a way he hopes is obvious, “and there’s a lot of _ communication  _ back and forth. Ideally, he’d have _ twenty  _ days to worm his way in before everything explodes, but who can say?”

“Right, good point,” Gabriel says. He’s gone slightly pale but he’s nodding. His eyes flicker between Crowley’s face and his cell phone case. “That makes sense. Well, don’t let me keep you. I know you’ve got work to do.”

“Thanks,” Crowley says. He shifts the files in his arms. Has it been ten minutes? He thinks it’s been ten minutes. “I appreciate your help, Agent Choir.”

“Just doing my job,” Gabriel says. He holds out a hand for Crowley to shake. “Keep safe out there.”

Crowley stuffs the piece of paper Fell had given him into his pocket before shaking Gabriel’s hand. “I’ll do my best.”

It’s harder than he would have expected to turn away. Gabriel, for all his pretentious overcoat-ness, feels like a beacon of safety in a shifting world. The only thing that allows Crowley to walk back to the van is the knowledge that Fell is still inside the house. He pauses at the edge of the sidewalk and checks up and down the street. This time he’s looking for more than just cars. He hopes to catch sight of Beeze or a team.

Nothing. Crowley crosses the street and makes his way to the van. He pops the door open and climbs in. Sandy, still hunched down in the driver’s seat, is waiting for him. “Are those the files?”

Crowley’s heart starts to pound. Oh shit. He can’t let Sandy see the files. “Yeah.”

Sandy extends a hand. “Well?”

Crowley blinks at him. “What?”

“You going to hand them over?”

“I, uh,” Crowley tries. “I think I should hang onto them. You’ve got that big gun already. I’m not feeling very useful here. File-guy, that’s me.”

Sandy frowns.

_ “What are you two blathering about?”  _ Michael asks. She sounds irritated. _ “Do you have the files?” _

Crowley swallows and looks down at his ‘I HEART London’ sleeve. “Yes we do.”

_ “Good,”  _ Michael says. She sounds tense. _ “At least something is going right.” _

“What?” Crowley asks. His heart is starting to pound again. Glancing over his shoulder he sees that Gabriel is still waiting across the street. He’s got his eye on the van.

  
Sandalphon catches his attention again. He shifts sideways out of his seat and starts making his way to the back of the van. “She’s going to trigger the bomb. Let’s go.”

Crowley nods and starts to shuffle back towards Sandalphon. _ “No, wait!”  _ Michael growls. Her voice through the phone sounds like murder. _ “Sandalphon, take your gun out and train it on the detective. Aziraphale, I won’t ask you again.”  _

Crowley freezes as Sandalphon immediately pulls his desert eagle out of it’s holster and points it at him. “What?” Crowley asks frantically. “What’s wrong?”

_ “It’s these goddamn files,” _ Michael hisses. _ “They won’t delete. I thought we were getting them but we’re finding the exact same files on different drives. There’s no way Interpol is this anal retentive.”  _ He can hear the sound of frantic typing.  _ “No, something’s not right here. This is wrong.”  _ Michael sounds ready to chew glass.  _ “Aziraphale, fix this now or you get to hear the detective die.”  _

Aziraphale’s voice over the phone is placating. He’s harder to hear, likely being further away, but he gets louder as he talks in a low, clearly trying-to-stay-calm sort of voice. _ “I told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t touched the files.” _

_ “I know you haven’t,”  _ she growls, _ “but you obviously managed to get a word off to somebody. I’ve got nothing here, Aziraphale. Nothing! And if I have nothing, soon you’ll have nothing, too.”  _

Crowley’s breath is coming fast through his nose. It’s very, very hard for him to look away from the gun, but he’s a trained detective and he knows Gabriel is aware of the score. Slowly, so Sandy doesn’t notice, Crowley looks past him out the driver’s side door.

And sees Beeze creeping towards them.

Crowley swallows and looks back at Sandy. He’d only gotten a quick glance, but he knows Beeze is wearing a tactical vest, which means the rest of the squad can’t be too far behind. He’s got to keep Sandy’s attention. Keep him from looking outside the van. “Hey, come on,” he says loudly. “We haven’t done anything, you’ve had eyes on us the whole time!”

Michael doesn’t appear to be listening.  _ “Aziraphale,”  _ she goes on, _ “I’m going to give you to the count of three. Either reverse this and find a way to destroy the files, or Sandalphon shoots the detective and leaves him in the van when it explodes. One— Two— ” _

_ “Okay!”  _ Fell says. Even over the phone, Crowley can hear his voice raise. _ “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Just let them out of the van, Michael. Let them come inside the house.”  _

Beeze creeps past the driver’s side window to the passenger door. Crowley sees the handle begin to lift. No! The door makes a sound when it opens. Sandy’s going to turn and then he’s going to shout, and Michael’s already on a hair trigger. 

Crowley has to do something. And he has to do it fast.

_ “Fix it now,”  _ Michael says. _ “Or he dies.”  _

“Wait!” Crowley shouts. He deliberately makes his voice loud, loud enough to transmit over the phone line, and hopefully loud enough for Beeze to hear. Thankfully, the handle immediately stops lifting and the world around them seems to freeze. “Gabriel’s still outside! He’ll be coming this way soon. We’ve got to get out of the van before he comes looking.”

There’s a charged moment of silence, and then Michael asks, _ “Sandalphon?” _

“Yes, my lady?”

_ “Where’s my idiot brother?”  _

“Uh,” Sandy replies. Keeping the gun trained on Crowley he peers around to the passenger window and looks out at the street. Crowley bites his lip and prays the team Gabriel has in play stays out of sight. “I don’t see him, my lady. I don’t know where he’s gone.”

Michael curses. _ “Do you at least have the files?” _

Crowley raises the folders still in his hand. Sandy nods. “We do, my lady.”

_ “Okay. Get out of the van and come around the side of the building. I’ll count to sixty and then detonate the van. That should throw Gabriel off, wherever he is. Stick with the detective and keep your gun handy. If Aziraphale can’t get these files unlocked then you’ll shoot the detective and we’ll toss him in the house when we blow it.”  _

_ “That’s not fair,”  _ Fell says tightly. Crowley can hear the sound of furious clicking over the line. _ “I don’t know what’s wrong here, I might not be able to fix it!” _

_ “You’d better hope that you can,”  _ Michael says coolly. _ “Starting the countdown now. Sandalphon, go.” _

Sandy nods and takes his eyes off Crowley to reach back for the door. Crowley, hoping desperately, squats as low to the floor as he can. 

Sure enough, the handle flips open just as Sandalphon reaches it. The sliding door squeals on it’s hinges and then there’s Beeze, in all their glory, pointing a gun at Sandy’s head.

Sandy says “Wha—?” and brings his weapon around. Crowley frantically signs ‘quiet quiet quiet!’ as fast as he can. Beeze’s eye darts from him to Sandy and then to Sandy’s gun. Their finger tightens. They fire. The shot hits Sandy right in the chest, directly over his heart, killing him instantly.

_ “What was that?!”  _ Michael screeches. _ “Sandalphon?!”  _

“What the fuck?” Crowley cries, trying to sound as much in pain as he can. “He shot me! The goddamn bastard shot me! She said to wait, you idiot!”

Beeze is motioning him quickly out of the van. Crowley steps over Sandy’s deadweight and jumps down. He closes the door behind him and looks around, seeing for the first time the team in tactical vests hiding in the alleyway beside the house. Gabriel is with the team, wearing a tactical vest now instead of his coat. 

Michael’s gone from apocalyptic to amused in too short a time. _ “I’m sure you deserved it, detective. Get back here. Can you walk?”  _

“Should say I can’t,” Crowley grumbles, following Beeze quickly into the alley. His heart is pounding and he has no idea how his voice is coming out so level. He stops when he’s out of range of the van and gestures to his ‘I HEART London’ case. Beeze nods. Moving as carefully as he can, Crowley withdraws the cell phone even as he continues to talk into it. “Serve him fucking right and make him carry me. Shot me in the _ fucking  _ arm.”

When the phone is out, he scrambles to rip the case off of his head and show Beeze the semtex inside. They make a face and gesture one of the bomb techician’s forward. The tech moves up briskly, taking the case and placing it into some sort of armoured box. 

_ “I’m blowing the car,”  _ Michael says. _ “Where’s Gabriel?”  _

Crowley breathes heavily into the phone, hoping to disguise the unavoidable noise of several people walking around in combat boots on gravel. Not to mention Beeze and the tactical vest they’ve decided he needs to wear. “I don’t know. We can’t see him. Sandalphon’s gone ahead to six-seventy.” He looks up and catches Gabriel’s eye. Gabriel makes a face and Crowley can’t help but wink. “I think we lost Gabriel.”

_ “Fuck,”  _ Michael grumbles. _ “Aziraphale, be ready to look out the front door. I’m blowing the car. Shut down the computer, I’ve got a laptop in the back. We can delete the original files from the main Interpol office on the east side.”  _

Fell sounds shocked. _ “I’m not helping you break into the Interpol office!” _

_ “You will if you want your boyfriend to get to a hospital,”  _ Michael snarls. _ “Get to the front door, now!”  _

The tactical team around Crowley moves. Shields in hand, half the team rushes to the front door where Fell is going to appear and half ready themselves at the side door. Beeze pauses in their attempt to get him into a vest and tackles him to the ground instead. There’s a sound like a cough from the street and then the van explodes. It erupts in a fireball so spectacular even Crowley can feel the force of it, kissing gravel as he is. 

At the same time as the explosion, the tactical teams runs into the house through the side door. The first team readies themselves at the front. Crowley wrestles out from under Beeze enough to crawl around the corner and stare at them. Fell will be there any moment. The team is highly trained and their entire job will be to get him away from the situation safely. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be— 

The door opens. Fell steps out. He stares at the fireball that was the van and opens his mouth, and then the first team member reaches him, pulls him down, rips the ‘I HEART London’ case off of his head, and throws it as far as they can down the street. A suited member of the bomb squad runs for it as Fell is quickly passed back through the line of team members until Gabriel catches him at the end. Gabriel shoves a bulletproof vest at him just as Beeze finally succeeds in strapping one on Crowley.

Fell looks over at him and their eyes meet. Crowley feels a relief so powerful it nearly staggers him. Fell is okay. He’s going to live.

_ “No!”  _ screams Michael over the phone. 

Crowley hears the sound of broken glass. There’s booted feet now, raised voices, and then a snarl so loud it carries easily over the line. _ “Back off,”  _ Michael growls, her voice tense and desperate, _ “or she dies.”  _

Crowley stiffens. 

The front door bangs open. Tactical team members are backing up down the stairs, hands up as they talk in low but reasonable tones. Michael is there, coming down the steps, and she has Zuriel in her arms. A package of semtex is being pressed tight against Zuriel’s throat. Michael’s phone is in her other hand and there’s a big red button on the screen that even Crowley can see. Her thumb hovers over it.

Crowley raises his voice so the people inside can hear. “Evacuate the house! It’s rigged, she can blow it any time. Clear the house!”

Beeze swears. The bomb squad ushers everyone back. Crowley can hear the people inside start running quickly out through the back.

“That’s right, detective,” Michael calls. She’s actually smiling at him, the psycho. It’s a smile edged in fear and tension, but her hand is steady on the phone. Zuriel looks completely unconcerned in her arms. “Everyone stay away from the house and away from the two of us. We’re leaving.”

“Michael,” Gabriel tries. He moves around Fell and takes two steps towards her. He stops when she raises the phone threateningly, putting his hands up over his head. “Michael, don’t do this. Turn yourself in and I’ll do what I can to make this easier for you.”

Her face twists. _ “Easier  _ for me? You think this is the time to play the big brother card? You’re a pig, Gabriel, and half the fun of this for me was the possibility of bringing you down. I might not be able to do that any more, but I’ll sure as hell die before accepting any helping from you.”

Gabriel’s expression is pained. “Michael…”

“Shut up,” she spits. She’s still backing up, is almost at the level now of the still-burning van. The street is completely empty behind her. Crowley’s sure his coworkers have sealed off access to this part of the road. Michael looks back and forth, clearly checking for some kind of escape and just as clearly not finding any. She’s still holding Zuriel tight to her chest. “You came here in a car, Gabriel. Get it for me and Zuriel and I will be going now. You’ll never see us again.”

“I can’t do that, Michael,” Gabriel says. He sounds honestly sorry about it. He’s walking forward again, slowly but steadily. “I would if I could, you know that, but I can’t. I took a cab.”

Michael forces a laugh. “A cab? My brother?”

“The driver was an undercover officer,” Gabriel explains. He’s still walking towards her. Michael isn’t letting him get close. She’s backing up into the street. “We gathered a whole team together today to take you down. We weren’t sure how many people you’d have with you. We’re glad it was only three.” 

Michael sneers. “It seems you overestimated me, brother, just as I underestimated you. First time for everything, I suppose.”

Fell is following behind Gabriel. Someone’s handed him a gun and he’s got it pointed at Michael, his eyes alive and wary. 

Michael sees him, too. She’s almost across the street now, a few steps from the railing. Her expression hardens when she looks at Fell. “I might have underestimated you, too, Aziraphale. Found a way to get a warning off to my brother despite everything, didn’t you?”

Fell shakes his head without taking his eyes off of her. “It was Detective Crowley and his team, actually. They’re the ones you underestimated here.”

Michael turns to smile coldly at Crowley. They’re far apart now, the width of the street, but Crowley still feels a prickel at the base of his neck. “Is that so? Well, it seems there’s only one way to repay him, then.”

With that she moves. Spinning hard, Michael grabs Zuriel by the hand and launches them both towards the railing. At the same time she throws the semtex in Gabriel and Aziraphale’s direction, raises her phone, and hits the button.

Crowley doesn’t even have time to scream before his world explodes.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Michael, Zuriel, Crowley, Fell, and Sandalphon drive to Waterdown street where Michael told Gabriel to meet them. When they get there they find a townhouse across the street from a railing that looks out over a river. Michael, Zuriel, and Fell go inside the house to destroy the electronic files while Crowley is to meet with Gabriel and retrieve the paper files. When Gabriel gets there he secretly tells Crowley that he knows what’s going on and that Beeze and the rest of the team are there to help.
> 
> In the end Beeze shoots Sandalphon and Crowley and Fell are rescued by Beeze’s team. Michael ends up taking Zuriel ‘hostage’ and backs off towards the river. She ends up throwing a bomb at Fell and Gabriel and jumping over the railing into the river with Zuriel. Screen fades to black when the bomb explodes.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you to EVERYONE for all the comments and kudos! I’m usually able to respond to every one, I write this stuff so I can squee with people, but you’ve completely overwhelmed me! It’s AWESOME. When I’m having a bad day or feel like my writing sucks I go back and read comments again. Best dopamine rush ever!
> 
> The plan was for this fic to be 12 chapters long but as you can see, it’s gotten away from me. I’ll wait for your cries of anguish ;)
> 
> Thanks as always to my wonderful beta Bellz, who makes everything better. She wanted me to apologize to everyone on her behalf for the delay in this chapter getting out. She was super sick this week and couldn’t review on the normal schedule. She may have even typed this herself. I also forgot to include in my thanks that choirs of angels sing hymnal praises to her glorious wonderfulness. I now owe her no less than two iced caps for such a criminal oversight.

  
  
  


Crowley’s been through a lot in the past three days.

He’s been fitted with a collar, led around on a leash, taken apart in front of an audience, and fucked on a table. He’s been a plaything and a hostage, a game piece and a walking bomb. It hasn’t been easy. 

He made it through because it was his job, it was the right thing to do, and he always had Fell there beside him. He had Fell to guide him and soothe him, comfort him and support him. He had Fell hold him together when he was falling apart.

He doesn’t have Fell now.

Crowley doubts he’ll ever completely recall what happened after the bomb went off. He knows the blast knocked him off his feet and he hit his head. He knows Michael and Zuriel jumped over the railing into the river. He knows the paramedics took Gabriel away in one ambulance and Fell away in another.

Crowley also knows that by the time they came for him, the migraine that had been threatening earlier was in full swing. He knows the doctor said he has a concussion. But for all of that, Crowley only _really_ knows is that for the twenty-four hours he has been under observation, light and sound have been physically painful, there’s a terrible throbbing inside his head, and no one will tell him if Fell is alive.

If the past three days have been difficult, the past twenty-four hours have been the worst of Crowley’s life.

The hospital room is a dingy space barely larger than a walk-in closet. It’s completely taken up by the bed, blinking monitors, and small visitor’s chair. Anathema is sitting in it now. Crowley hasn’t been alone since the bomb went off. Beeze rode with him to the hospital, Newt met him in the ER, and Anathema stayed with him last night. They’re clearly taking turns.

Crowley’s been sleeping as much as possible. The doctor who visited him yesterday encouraged it. He isn’t allowed to read a book or listen to a radio until told otherwise. TV is right out. The doctor had been emphatic. “Brain rest means _ rest.  _ If you’re not bored, you’re not doing it right.”

Crowley knows that, this hardly his first concussion after all, but how could he _ rest  _ without knowing what happened to Fell? He’d tried to explain as much to the doctor but had been unable to get around the pounding in his head long enough to speak. Thankfully Beeze, who’d been on Crowley-sitting shift at the time, had known what his angry grunts meant. “He wants to know if his partner is okay.”

  
The doctor had made an uncertain face. “Uh, partner-partner or work-partner?”

Beeze had looked at Crowley, who lifted a hand to his collar. He was still wearing it, thank God. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if they’d taken it away. Beeze had looked back at the doctor. “Partner.” 

“Do we have that written down somewhere?”

Beeze had frowned. “Probably not.”

The doctor had sighed. “Then I’m sorry, but unless we have verbal consent or a marriage certificate I really can’t tell you anything. Patient information is strictly confidential.”

Crowley had tried to argue. Beeze had looked at him, annoyed. “Shut up.” They’d turned back to the doctor. “Fine, but if Aziraphale Fell asks about him, you have Crowley’s permission to tell Fell he’s alive.”

The doctor had looked at Crowley. “Is that true?”

Crowley had nodded as vigorously as he’d been able. He’d winced after. 

The doctor’s eyes had softened. “Okay. Do you need something for pain now?”

Crowley had made a face. Beeze had glared. Crowley had sighed and held out the arm with the IV.

He’d drifted off to sleep again after that.

Now it’s evening again, presumably, since the light coming through the window is a dusky orange. Crowley doesn’t dare turn his head to look at the clock on the wall. The pounding in his skull has settled somewhat, more likely concussion than migraine now, but this was his, what? Third? Fourth concussion? He knows the pain can start up again. What would be the point of moving, anyway? He’s not allowed to leave. He has no interest in eating. He doesn’t want to make conversation. 

Anathema brought a book with her and is slowly turning the pages. She’s angled herself sideways in the chair to catch the light, since they turned the fluorescent overheads off pretty much the second Crowley woke up. He watches Anathema without saying anything. He isn’t sure she knows he’s even awake.

He makes a face. She probably does. She’s just being kind. Anathema is good like that.

He should probably make an effort to be likewise. 

“Hey,” Crowley says.

Anathema looks up from her book to smile softly at him. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

Crowley makes a face. “Eh. Blgh.”

Anathema’s lips quirk. She’d long since become fluid in Crowley-speak. “That good, huh?”

Crowley echoes the ‘huh’ back at her. 

She laughs gently. “I know, I know. My American is showing.”

He manages a smile.

Anathema leans forward and offers her hand. Crowley takes it. It’s a comforting point of contact. 

He can’t help but ask. “No word?”

Anathema shakes her head. “I would have told you first thing if there was.”

Crowley heaves a sigh. “I know.”

“Although I did get ‘lost’ on the second floor ICU today,” Anathema admits with a squeeze.

Crowley frowns. “You did?”

“Oh, yes,” Anathema says. “Absolutely. Took me an age to find my way up here, had to ask literally everyone where to go.” She winks. “They were ever so helpful.”

Crowley manages a smile. “So he’s not on the second floor?”

Anathema sighs. “Nope.”

“You could have missed a spot,” Crowley points out.

“Please,” Anathema scoffs. “When I get lost, I get thoroughly lost. I even poked my head in the few rooms that had their doors shut.”

Crowley frowns. “Isn’t that an invasion of privacy?”

“Probably. Not strictly necessary, either, since if _ you’ve  _ got guards, Fell’s got to have legions.” She pouts. “And I still didn’t get tackled by security once.”

Crowley forces a chuckle. He hates to remember why the guards are there. “Your poor mother. However will she manage the shame?”

“She raised me as a rebel,” Anathema says proudly, and then winks. “Guess I’ll just have to try the third floor step down unit tomorrow. Really make her proud.”

Crowley has to swallow against the lump in his throat. “Thank you.”

Anathema tosses her hair. “Who says I’m doing this for you? Some of those security girls are pretty cute. And the boys! Rrwwr.”

Crowley’s lip twitch of their own volition. “Poor Newt, he’ll be heartbroken.”

Anathema grins. “He still carrying a torch for me?”

“Pretty sure it’s a bonfire now. He’s completely smitten.”

“Aw,” Anathema says, still grinning. “That’s adorable. Maybe I should finally ask him out to dinner. It’s clear he’ll never ask me.”

“You absolutely should,” Crowley assures her. “He’ll be a nervous wreck and might spontaneously combust on the way to the restaurant but he’ll die a happy man.”

Anathema chuckles. “Well, in that case— ”

Whatever she’s going to say is cut off by a loud “Sir!” from the guard outside the door. In the distance, Crowley can hear his doctor shouting. “You can’t go in there!” 

Anathema looks at Crowley. He stares back. They have half a second to be concerned before the door is thrown open. Harsh fluorescent lighting floods the room. Crowley winces and reaches for his sunglasses. Gabriel strides inside, already folding away the ID he’d flashed the officer. 

Crowley grimaces and waves the guard back outside the room. It’s fine. 

Gabriel doesn’t seem to think so. “You,” he says, pointing imperiously at Crowley.

Crowley’s head is throbbing again. “Me.”

“Get up,” Gabriel demands. “Aziraphale’s asking for you.”

Crowley sits up so suddenly the room spins. “He’s alive?”

Gabriel frowns and turns around to look at Crowley’s doctor. She’s hurrying into the room, clearly out of breath from trying to catch up. Gabriel looks at her. “You didn’t tell him?”

The doctor hangs onto the door. “Patient— ” she starts, managing to gasp and glare at the same time, “— confidentiality is a thing, you know.”

“Oh.” Gabriel seems to think about that for a moment. He looks at the doctor again. “Do you want a job?”

She stares at him. “What?”

Gabriel shrugs. “It’s just that people with integrity are in short supply these days. We could find a position for you in— ”

Crowley gropes for the wall. He’s managed to get to the side of the bed and is now trying to climb to his feet except he’s dizzy and the room hasn’t stopped spinning yet. He knocks against his IV pole.

Anathema leaps from her chair and catches him under the elbow. The doctor shoots Gabriel an irritated look and pushes past him to help Anathema. She takes Crowley’s other elbow. “Careful,” she says to Crowley, just as Anathema snaps, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Crowley winces as the words seem to bounce around the inside of his skull. “Nothing. I’m— Nothing. Looking for the door.” His sunglasses have slipped down his nose. The light from the hallway sears his eyes. “Oh, hey. There it is.”

“Sit _ down,”  _ Anathema says crossly. She maneuvers Crowley back to the bed, glancing over her shoulder at Gabriel as she does. “You. Start talking.”

Gabriel looks discomforted. “Uh, well, Aziraphale’s alive. Like I said. He threw himself on top of me, you know, so he took the— ” He looks away and exhales through his nose. “The brunt of the damage. He was unconscious when they brought him in. He’s woken up since then, though not consistently. He’s awake enough now to start asking questions.” He looks at Crowley seriously. “The first person he asked about was you.”

Crowley makes a sound in the back of his throat. It might be a whine.

“Right,” Anathema says briskly. “Where are your shoes?” She glances at the doctor. “Is there a wheelchair we can use?”

A gratifyingly short amount of time later Crowley is being wheeled out of the elevator — on the third floor, which pleased Anathema — towards the short stay unit. “He graduated from the ICU when he woke up,” Gabriel explains as he leads the way. “They’re keeping him here under observation.” 

Crowly nods and tries to ignore the fluttering in his chest. His headache has dimmed and the dizziness has ebbed but the nausea is still going full force. He’s pretty sure that’s nerves, though. The past twenty-four hours have given him too long to think. 

“Here we are,” Gabriel says, approaching the door at the end of the hall. The security guards standing watch both nod at him. Gabriel knocks but doesn’t wait for a response before pushing the door open and gesturing Crowley inside. 

Anathema edges the wheelchair forward. Crowley cranes his neck to see and then catches his breath when he does.

Fell.

He looks like hell. He’s sitting on the side of his bed staring at the door. His left arm is in a cast. There’s a bruise on his cheek and a cut on his chin. His hair is more flyaway than Crowley’s ever seen it. The green of the hospital gown is _ not  _ his colour.

He’s the most beautiful thing Crowley’s ever seen. 

“Crowley,” Fell breathes. His eyes light up instantly. He grips the side of the bed tight with his one good hand.

“Angel,” Crowley croaks back. He’s pushing himself up from the wheelchair and stumbling forward before he can think. The world goes blurry. The dizziness hits him full force and his knees give out. Anathema makes a sound but then Fell is there, his arms around Crowley’s waist, his chin tucked into Crowley’s shoulder. They sink to the floor together. Crowley’s vaguely aware of Anathema and Gabriel backing out of the room. The door closes behind them. Crowley buries his head in Fell’s chest, shaking as Fell runs his one good hand up and down Crowley’s spine.

“You’re okay, you're okay, oh thank God you’re okay. What happened? Did they hurt you? I heard a shot. My heart stopped, I swear it did. Where did they shoot you? You said your arm, let me see your arm. You weren’t hit by the blast, were you?”

“No.” Crowley sniffs. His voice is choked. “No, I’m okay. I was far enough away. I hit my head, Beeze says I have a concussion. Again. I was never shot. Sandy was, Beeze shot him. He never hurt me. I’m okay.”

“Thank God, Thank _ God,”  _ Fell sounds as close to tears as Crowley feels. He gathers Crowley tight and presses Crowley against his chest, holding him with his good arm. The cast bumps against Crowley’s shoulder blade. Fell’s breath hitches. 

Crowley hisses and pulls back. “Careful,  _ careful.  _ What about you? What happened to your arm? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Fell dismisses. “Everyone’s been fussing since I woke up but I’m fine. My arm broke when I fell on it, that’s all. It doesn’t even hurt that much.”

“Sure,” Crowley scowls. “Try me another one. I’ve broken bones before. What else is hurt? Did you hit your head?”

“My head is fine, it landed on Gabriel.” Fell cracks a smile. “On his chest, thankfully, or it most likely would have cracked. He’s the only one I know who’s more hard-headed than me,” he gives Crowley a sappy smile. “Except maybe you.”

“You idiot,” Crowley chokes, pulling him tight. “What were you thinking? Gabriel said you threw yourself on top of him. He said it took you forever to wake up. Are you okay?”

“I really am. A little bruising, nothing more. My chest hurts a little — I’m okay!” He catches Crowley’s hands when Crowey pulls away, bringing them to his lips and kissing them. “My ribs aren’t even cracked, they’re just sore. What about you? You said you had a concussion?”

Crowley winces. “Yeah.”

Fell looks at him with concern. “How are you feeling? Is the light too bright in here? I can turn it down.”

The light _ is  _ just a touch too bright. The switch is on the far side of the room, though, and Crowley really doesn’t want to move. “It’s okay, it’s just a headache.” 

Fell frowns. His gaze turns sharp as he pulls back to look Crowley over carefully. “Is it?”

Crowley avoids his eye. He can feel the dizziness waiting. “Um.”

Fell shakes his head and climbs to his feet. “And you call me an idiot.” Crowley protests but Fell ignores him, moving to the wall and hitting the switch. The room goes black. There are no windows here, just walls with lots of equipment and buttons. It’s enough light to see by. Fell walks back to where Crowley is sitting and reaches for him. “Is that better?”

“Yeah,” Crowley admits, taking his hand. 

Fell tugs him at him gently. “Come on. I’m too old for the floor.”

Crowley grins. He hasn’t smiled much in the past twenty-four hours but it’s suddenly easy now. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Fell starts to chuckle, and then winces. He puts a hand on his ribs. “Ow.” 

Crowley lets go of Fell’s hand and scrambles to his feet. “I’m sorry.”

Fell shakes his head. “No, no, it’s fine, just don’t make me laugh.” He reaches for Crowley’s hand again and tangles their fingers together as he steps towards the bed. “Come on, lie down with me.” Then he stops and looks back at Crowley in concern. “If you want to, that is. I’m sorry, I just assumed— ”

“Yes! Yes, absolutely,” Crowley trips over himself to reassure him. “Yes, _ please.”  _

Fell’s lips quirk up, amusement and something infinitely more tender. “Okay.”

He leads them both to the bed. It’s nearly the same as Crowley’s, hard and uncomfortable and too small for two people. They manage it, though. Crowley finds the mattress much softer when he’s allowed to share it with Fell. 

“This is nice,” Crowley confesses, closing his eyes. He turns his head a little so he can better inhale the sharp scent of Fell nestled close. They’re tucked in together, Crowley with his hand curled in Fell’s chest, the loose fabric of the hospital gown wound between his fingers, Fell with his cast balanced on Crowley’s hip. It’s a tight squeeze on the small bed but neither of them moves. 

“It is,” Fell agrees. His voice is low. “How’s your head?”

“Better,” Crowley admits. With the lights off, his headache has settled to a quiet throb. The dizziness is still there, waiting behind his eyes, but the nausea is gone. 

“Are you tired?”

Crowley snorts quietly. “All I’ve done for the past day is sleep.”

Fell sounds amused. “That isn’t an answer.”

Crowley grumbles. “It should be. Why am I still so exhausted?”

He can hear the smile in Fell’s voice. “Do you want the list annotated alphabetically?”

Crowley snuggles closer. “Sure.” He yawns. “I like the sound of your voice.”

Fell strokes the fingers of his bad hand gently down Crowley’s leg. “I don’t really want to dwell on all the things you’ve been through in the past several days, my dear.”

“Good point. Just say anything, then.”

“Very well.” Fell shifts a little, pressing their thighs more firmly together. “Vagar mi fai co’ miei pensier su l’orme; che vanno al nulla eterno; e intanto fugge; questo reo tempo, e van con lui le torme.”

“That’s nice,” Crowley sighs. “What’s it mean?”

Fell brushes his chin gently across Crowley’s cheek. “I’ll tell you later. Delle cure onde meco egli si strugge; e mentre guardo la tua pace, dorme; quello spirto guerrier ch’entro mi rugge.”

  
  


*

  
  


The hospital ends up keeping them both another day for observation. Fell, for all that he’d been knocked unconscious, is actually doing fairly well. Crowley, who’s medical chart seems to be several pages thicker than Fell’s, is taking longer to recover. Thankfully Crowley’s doctor seems content to visit him in the step down unit. The day nurse puts up a bit more fuss but Anathema has a quiet word with him and he settles down quickly after that. He even goes so far as to sneak them an extra blanket from housekeeping. 

The next afternoon arrives with some negotiation. Fell’s doctor would like to keep him one more day. “You were involved in an explosion,” he says. “You seem fine now but I don’t want you to go home and have to come back again.” 

Fell, sitting in the visitor’s chair by the bed, argues politely. “But I am doing well.”

“Yeah, sure, you can stand, walk, sit, and use the bathroom independently, but can you make food for yourself?”

Fell raises an eyebrow. “I can order delivery.”

“Delivery isn’t food.”

“From _ La Chateau  _ it is.”

Crowley covers his laugh with a cough. He’s laying on the bed, ostensibly resting his eyes, but really admiring how much of a bastard Fell can be. He doesn’t know why Fell’s fighting to be discharged, but Crowley can’t begrudge him. A harder thought to avoid is what he’s going to do without Fell here.

Fell’s doctor scowls at Crowley before looking back to Fell. “You’d better not use your bad arm.” 

Fell nods seriously. “I assure you I will not.”

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Anathema. She looks at the doctor and then at Fell. “I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”

Fell’s expression brightens. “Not at all, Ms Device. The good doctor here was just about to discharge me.”

The doctor glares. “I was, was I?”

“Unless you have a medical reason you want me to stay?”

They engage in the world’s most unbalanced staring contest, the doctor glaring and Fell simply looking serene. After a moment the doctor throws up his hands. “Fine! Find a general practitioner to check in on you and someone to look at that arm. I’ll refer you to an orthopedic surgeon I know.”

Fell resettles the cast on his lap. “You’re very kind.”

The doctor grumbles to himself and pulls a pad of paper from his pocket. He’s already scrawling on it as he turns towards the door. “The nurses will be by with your paperwork.”

Fell waits until he’s gone before turning to Anathema. “Hello, Ms Device. I’m sorry about that. Are you here to see Crowley?”

“I’m here to see you both.” She holds up a paper bag. “I brought croissants.”

Fell turns to Crowley with a twinkle in his eye. “I can see why she’s your favourite.”

Crowley grins. 

Fell tries to offer Anathema the chair but she waves him off, finding a wall instead to lean against. They chat easily until Crowley’s doctor arrives. She knocks on the door and then walks in with a smile on her face. “Are you ready to be discharged?”

Crowley blinks and looks at Fell. He doesn’t look surprised. “Can I be?”

“Yes. Your scans look good. You still have a concussion but that’s no reason to keep you in hospital.”

Fell leans forward. Crowley wonders if he just likes arguing with doctors. “He’s still light sensitive and dizzy when he moves too quickly. And the headache hasn’t gone away.”

She nods sympathetically. “It’s going to take a while for you to feel normal again. Listen to your body. Don’t read or watch TV or do anything that might strain your brain until your symptoms settle. You can increase your activity level as things improve but you have to listen to yourself and be honest about how you're feeling.”

Anathema snorts. “Uh oh.”

The doctor frowns. “What?”

Crowley shoots Anathema a glare. She only grins. “He doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to things like that, doc.”

The doctor looks earnestly at Crowley. “This really is important.”

“I know it is,” Crowley assures her. He glares at Anathema. “I’ll be good.”

Fell murmurs something under his breath. 

“It would probably be best if you made sure you had someone with you at home for the next several days, just to be sure.” She looks between Fell and Anathema. “Is there someone you can stay with?”

Crowley opens his mouth and then closes it again. He doesn’t dare look at Fell. What if Fell changed his mind? “Uh.”

Anathema rolls her eyes. “See what I mean?”

This time it’s Fell who shoots her a look. He reaches over and takes Crowley’s hand. “Don’t worry, doctor. We’ll take care of him.”

Crowley bites his bottom lip and fidgets but doesn’t ask what that means. It’s Anathema’s turn to mutter something under her breath. She’s smiling while she does it, at least. She’s always been more psychic than is good for her. 

The doctor looks confused. “Uh, okay. You can go home today, then. Just give us an hour for the paperwork.”

She leaves the room with a nod. Anathema pushes herself off the wall.

“That’s my cue, I suppose,” Anathema says. “I’ll just go make sure everything is in order. Did Beeze tell you they were enforcing two weeks off?”

Crowley, who still hasn’t dared look at Fell, shakes his head. 

“Well, they did, so I wouldn’t even think about showing up to work before then, or there’ll be hell to pay.” Anathema glances at Fell and then back at Crowley. She winks. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep watering your plants for you.”

Oh God, he’s blushing. Why does he have such terrible friends?

“And,” Anathema continues, “I promise we’ll do a TV marathon just as soon as your head is better. I’ll even watch Doctor Who with you again.”

“You just want to rant about the history,” Crowley grumbles, but he’s relieved all the same. Fell is still holding his hand but anything between them is fragile and new. No matter how it goes, at least Crowley will always have Anathema.

“You’re right,” she admits. She bends down and gives him a hug. “We’ll do Lord of the Rings.”

He hugs her back. “Bring popcorn.”

“The biggest bag.” 

Smiling at them both, Anathema leaves. 

Crowley swallows and turns to Fell. “So.”

Fell smiles gently. “So.” He stands up from the chair and takes the half step to the bed. He sits down, tucking himself in so close to Crowley their thighs and shoulders touch. It should be a comfort, but Fell doesn’t say anything more. Crowley bites his lip at the silence.

After a moment Fell laughs quietly. “You know, it’s strange. We’ve spent so long having to move in secret, it feels suspicious to just be able to talk about things.” He squeezes Crowley’s hand. “Some part of me keeps thinking it isn’t safe.”

Crowley huffs. “Yeah.” He picks at a thread on the hospital throw. “I’m not going to lie, this weekend has probably reinforced some bad habits.”

“Oh?” Fell rubs his thumb across the back of Crowley’s hand. “Like what?”

“Well,” Crowley glances back at the door. “As Anathema can attest, I’m not very good at talking about my feelings.”

Fell smiles. “I’m shocked — shocked! That seems completely out of character for you.”

Crowley snorts and presses his shoulder into Fell’s gently, mindful of Fell’s bruised ribs. “Yeah, yeah.”

Fell’s smile softens. “Actually, my dear, I’ve been consistently impressed all weekend by how good you’ve been about checking in with me. Even with the difficulties we were under, you always managed to make your intentions clear. That’s no small feat.”

Crowley squirms. “I only managed because you kept asking me all the time.”

Fell sighs. “As much as I could, at least. There were some things I definitely sprang on you. The knife, for one. I told you specifically that such a thing should be reserved for people who have had time to get to know one another, and then I brought it out during our first time.”

“Nugh.” Crowley’s mouth goes dry just remembering. “Maybe. It was good, though. You knew it’d be good.”

“I had an inkling you’d enjoy it,” Fell agrees. “When I mentioned it at your flat, you certainly seemed interested. I honestly hadn’t planned on it, though. I brought the knife simply as backup, but then when I saw the other tools they had available, I knew I’d rather my blade than anything else on offer.”

“I guess you could have gone straight to the whip,” Crowley admits, “but it wouldn’t have been as much fun.”

“No, you certainly needed a warm up, dear boy.” Fell turns to him, getting more comfortable on the bed. He reaches forward and uses his good hand to cup Crowley’s face. “My goal was never to hurt you. I wanted to protect you and dominate you in a safe way.” He hesitates. “That’s what I always wanted to do.”

“I know,” Crowley says, leaning into his palm. “I knew the whole time that you’d stop if I asked you, too. That’s a good part of why I didn’t. I trusted you to get us through.”

“You did, and yet in the end, it was you and your team who rescued us.” Fell sighs and drops his hand. “I still can’t believe it was Michael the entire time.”

Crowley sighs. “Yeah.” He has a thought. “How’s Gabriel?”

“In regards to Michael? Devastated, of course. Not that he wants to talk about it. I tried bringing it up yesterday when you went back to your room for a shower but he shut me down quite thoroughly. I’ll give him time to process before I bring it up again.”

“Seems smart.” Crowley chews on his bottom lip. “Beeze said— Beeze said that they still hadn’t found them. Michael and Zuriel. That’s why we have guards.”

Fell sighs. “No, I don’t believe they have found them. There’s a good chance they’re both dead, of course. They jumped the railing but it was quite a long fall to the water and the tunnel system beneath London is full of dangers both overt and hidden. We still have people searching.”

Crowley eyes him. “You don’t believe she’s dead, though.”

Fell closes his eyes. “I wish I could convince myself she was.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Fell squeezes his hand. “You are the only other one who could, my love.”

Crowley freezes. “Uh.”

Fell frowns. “What? Oh.” He seems to realize what he said and blushes quite suddenly, heat flooding his cheeks. “I’m sorry if that was unwelcome.”

“Not unwelcome,” Crowley croaks. He coughs and clears his throat. “Not at all. Just, uh, unexpected.” He looks down at their joined hands. “I thought I was the only one falling hard and fast.”

When he dares glance up, he sees that Fell’s face is alight with careful hope. “Not at all.” He takes a slow breath. “I should warn you, though, that being thrown together in a perilous situation can create a false sense of emotion. What you feel for me might be based more on what happened to us than on who it happened with.”

“Oh,” Crowley says. He feels a terrible sort of crumpling in his chest. It might be his heart. “Right. Yeah.” He looks back down at their hands. “So you might... not actually love me, I guess.”

“My dear,” Fell says, squeezing his hand and drawing Crowley’s eyes back up despite his every plan not to. “I’ve been falling for you ever since I walked into that conference room and saw the passion with which you defended your case. I admired you while watching you interrogate Douglas. Everything we have gone through since then has only furthered my opinion that you are simply marvellous. I think we would be excellent together. I think we compliment each other nicely.”

Crowley swallows. “But— ”

Fell smiles sadly. “But you have had to depend on me for safety. You’ve had to rely on me for guidance and I’ve wrung more than a few orgasms out of you.” He smiles when Crowly blushes. “That kind of thing can engineer a false sense of security.”

“It’s not false,” Crowley argues. “You wouldn’t hurt me. Not _ really.  _ Not on purpose. I know that. I’ve trusted you with my life, angel. There isn’t anything more than that.”

“You trust lots of people with your life, Crowley. Trusting them with your heart is a lot more risky.”

Crowley manages a watery smile. “Yeah, well, I’ve been trusting you with that for a while now, too. I know you wouldn’t hurt me that way, either, not if you couldn’t help it.”

Fell brings Crowley’s fingers to his lips and kisses them. “I wouldn’t.”

“Besides,” Crowley goes on, feeling bolder now, “you already promised what you’d do to me after we got through the weekend. Are you taking that back?”

Fell holds his gaze. “Never. I want to make sure you’re agreeing for the right reasons, though.”

Crowley takes a breath. “Pretty sure the choice is mine, either way.”

“It is,” Fell agrees sadly, “but I don’t want to hurt you. If we’re not on the same page about this, we’re both going to end up devastated.”

“Fine,” Crowley challenges. “Tell me what page you’re on then.”

Fell pulls Crowley’s hand to his cheek and closes his eyes. “I’m on the page where you come home with me and not leave for a week. Or for two weeks. I don’t want Anathema to have to look after your plants, I want you to move them in with us.”

Crowley makes an inarticulate noise. 

Fell sighs. “But that’s much too fast. I know that. And yet I quite simply can’t imagine letting you out of my sight.”

“Ngg.” Crowley says. He coughs. “Pretty sure— pretty sure we’re both going to have to talk to staff psychologists about this.”

“Yes, we will,” Fell says. He pauses for a moment. “That might not actually be a bad thing.”

Crowley nods. He bites his lip. “So you, uh, want to put what you said on hold? Get our heads on straight first?”

“Oh, my dear,” Fell whispers. He looks at him, and Crowley can see the full force of his desire in his eyes. “Not at all.”

Crowley sucks in a breath.

Fell waits a moment, then he squeezes Crowley’s hand. “You’re going to have to use your words.”

“Eughb,” Crowley manages. He takes a deep breath. “I’ll— I’ll talk to whoever. And I won’t move my plants in just yet. But angel _ — sir —  _ I really want you to take me home and fuck me. Take me home and _ keep me.  _ Please.”

Fell gazes at him. “For how long?”

Crowley’s voice cracks. “Forever.”

“Oh, my dearest,” Fell breathes. He pulls Crowley close and presses their cheeks together. “I want to do that. I want to promise that as much as anyone can promise something like that to a new partner.” He pulls back but brings Crowley’s knuckles to his mouth and kisses them. Crowley feels a shiver travel up his arm. “There’s a few things we need to talk about, though. When we get home, I’m going to want to take care of you. I need you to tell me if there is anything you don’t like.”

Crowley can promise that easily. “I can honestly say that nothing we’ve done in the past few days has been bad. I even liked getting fucked on the table, though I would’ve rather not had Michael staring. I _ really  _ liked what you were saying to me before about— ” he blushes “— about the things you’d do to me if you had the chance.”

“Which ones?” Fell asks gently. “The spending days memorizing you? Or the tying you up and doing everything for you myself?”

“Yes,” Crowley breathes. “Both of those. Any of those. Please.”

Fell smiles. “Okay. One last question, then.” He pauses for a beat. “Do you remember, when we were first talking in your flat, when I said that this sort of relationship can last a single scene or be a constant part of a couple’s life?”

“Uh.” Crowley has to think back. “I think so, yes.” 

Fell presses his lips together. “Well, I must admit that at this point my knowledge is purely theoretical. I’ve never had a partner that I’ve wanted to have this conversation with before. Our time together so far has been unfairly skewed. We’ve never been ‘off the clock’ with each other yet. The whole weekend that we’ve been together you were always, in some respects, in the submissive role, while I was in the dominant.”

“That’s true,” Crowley says slowly. “How, um, did you feel about that?”

“I liked it,” Fell confesses. “I have to admit that I liked it very much.”

“Oh good,” Crowley exhales, “because I did, too.”

Fell looks relieved. “Good. I mean, yes. Okay.” He clears his throat. “This in no way means that I want you to never argue with me, of course. You’re a submissive, Crowley, but that isn’t _ all  _ you are. I’ve heard that some people will use their collar as a means of expression. When they’re wearing it, they are asking to be treated more as a submissive. When they aren’t wearing it, they’d like things to be more level.”

Crowley touches his collar, uncomfortable with the idea of taking it off. “I don’t— I don’t like that plan. Can’t you just, you know, tell?”

Fell huffs a laugh. “I might be good, but I’m not a mind-reader, Crowley.”

Crowley shrugs. “You might as well be. You’ve read me pretty consistently so far.”

“Maybe,” Fell concedes, “but this is too important to get wrong.”

Crowley makes a face. “Yeah. Okay, how about this. We’ll have a conversation sometime later about, I don’t know, words or phrases or something. For the moment, if I really want to get your attention, I’ll tell you. Worst case scenario, I’ll ask you to take the collar off, okay?”

Fell’s breath hitches.

Crowley takes his hand. “What?”

“Sorry,” Fell says. Crowley’s surprised to see that he’s blinking hard. “I just realized I’d think you were leaving me if you did that. Which is silly, I know. I just told you taking the collar off was something people did.”

“Maybe,” Crowley says, taking a page from Fell’s book and bringing Fell’s hand up so Crowley can kiss his knuckles, “but that doesn’t mean that _ we  _ have to.”

Fell gives him a watery smile. “I thought you said you weren’t good at relationships.”

Crowley chuckles. “I’m not, but I think I’ll be good with you.”

Fell turns their hands so he can press a kiss to Crowley’s palm. “I think we’ll be good with each other.”

Crowley shivers. The heat of Fell’s breath ghosts across his wrist, raising goosebumps up his arms. “How long till we can get out of here again?”

Fell’s eyes glitter. “Just under an hour.”

“Right.” Crowley swallows. “So, uh, practicing open and honest communication, what do you want to do with me when we get home?”

Smiling slowly, Fell tells him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Fell recites here is ‘Alla Sera’ by Niccolo Foscolo, which I totally just found on google but which sounded lovely. Here’s the translated verses. “You make my thoughts wander forms; that vanish into eternal nothing; meanwhile this cursed time flees, and with it, the throng; of cares with which it me destroys; and while I gaze on your peace, that warlike spirit; sleeps, that yet within me roars.”


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey All! Sorry-not-sorry for the delay. My beta had to take some time to slay the LSAT and now that she has gotten in the first jab, she’s back to help me out. Thank you Bellz! Always and always!

  
  


Fell’s place is nice.

Really nice.

Crowley slows to a stop in the entrance. The flat appears uncomplicated in its layout. There’s a kitchen, a sitting room, a bathroom at the end of the hall. There’s a door that leads presumably to a bedroom.

But there are also books. Hundreds of books. Maybe _ thousands  _ of books. Hardwood shelving has been built into the walls and stretches from the ceiling to the floor. There’s no TV. Every wall is covered instead in books. Even the kitchen has a shelf above the microwave. 

“Home sweet home,” Fell says, turning to Crowley with a somewhat nervous smile. “Quite cluttered, I know.”

Crowley shakes his head. The wood is warm and well-worn. There’s a half-drunk mug of tea on a bookshelf and a few dog-eared copies of paperbacks stacked on top of leather-bound volumes. In the middle of the flat is a low table with a soft-looking sofa and an armchair. Tartan-patterned throw pillows lay scattered about. Beyond the sofa is a sliding door that leads out onto a balcony. Things between them are too new for Crowley to deliberately think about what he could grow there, but he does note that the balcony faces east. 

“It’s not cluttered,” he manages finally. “It’s perfect.”

“Oh,” Fell says and then smiles. “Well, I like it. Gabriel likes to complain about the mess.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and toes off his runners. Gabriel and Beeze had both shown up at the hospital with change of clothes and a set of car keys. They’d tossed a coin to determine who got to drive them home. Beeze had won. Gabriel had sulked until it was time to get changed and Beeze — completely ignoring the fact that Crowley might want to look good at some point over the next several days — had revealed that they’d packed him old t-shirts, loose jogging pants, and falling apart shoes. Crowley had dug through the bag to find the only button-up he owned stuffed into the bottom. He’d put it on in the vague hope that it would inspire the rest of his clothes to magically transform into something nicer. 

Gabriel had gotten his own back by pulling out pressed beige slacks, a robin-egg blue shirt, and a copper-coloured jumper. The display of one-up-manship had been soured when Fell’s shirt had proved unable to fit over Fell’s cast. Gabriel had scowled. 

Crowley snorts at the memory. “Listen, I feel bad for the guy and all, but he really is a wanker.”

Fell chuckles. “Yes, well.” He cradles his arm awkwardly as he bends over to untie his shoes. The shirt Gabriel had brought him is rolled up to the elbow and pulls slightly as he tugs at the laces. Crowley would offer to help, but he’s caught by the view. Before he can get over the sight of Fell’s arse in those pants, Fell is straightening. “Let me make sure I’ve got the curtains pulled down everywhere. How’s your head?”

Crowley wants to lie but they’d talked about this. “A little worse from the drive,” he admits.

Fell squeezes his hand. “Thank you for telling me. Why don’t you sit down and rest your eyes?”

Crowley sighs but nods. He walks to the sofa. The floor is covered with intricate carpets that look fancy but feel soft against his feet. “We’re still on, though, right?”

“Oh yes,” Fell assures him. He puts a hand on Crowley’s arm and guides him down to the sofa. “There you are.”

“Mm,” Crowley says. The sofa is wonderfully comfortable. Crowley closes his eyes and oh, yes. That does feel better. “Okay, you win.”

Fell chuckles and moves around the living room. Crowley can hear him going to the window. There’s a soft clatter and then the ambient light in the room dims. Fell must have pulled down the curtains. “Win what?”

Crowley smiles. He really is comfortable. “Whatever you like.”

“My dear,” Fell murmurs. He stops behind the sofa and lays a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. The index finger of his good hand just barely grazes the collar Crowley’s still wearing. “I already have everything I need.”

Crowley tips his head back so he can look up at Fell. There’s probably a ridiculous smile on his face. He’s going to fix that. Any second now. “Sap.”

Fell chuckles and leans down to press a kiss to Crowley’s hair. “You love me anyway.”

“Yeah,” Crowley admits, grinning helplessly up at him. “I really do.”

Fell looks down at him, eyes warm and full of affection, until he realizes Crowley’s looking back. “Tutt tutt,” he says. “You’re supposed to be resting. Close your eyes and relax.”

Crowley sighs but does as he’s told. Fell squeezes his shoulder and then walks away. Crowley can hear Fell rummaging in the kitchen and can’t help but ask, “Do you need any help?” 

The rummaging stops. “Absolutely not,” Fell says. Crowley doesn’t even realize he’s opened his eyes until he sees Fell stick his head out from the kitchen. “What did I say?”

Crowley dutifully closes his eyes. “Can’t hear you. Resting.”

Fell chuckles. Crowley grins and kicks his feet up on the sofa. He manages a whole five minutes before he starts twitching. Fell’s still working in the other room. “Seriously,” Crowley calls. “What are you doing in there?”

“Just getting some things ready.”

Crowley sighs and wiggles his toes. He tries to count to thirty. “Hey, have you seen my phone?”

“Crowley!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Crowley amends. “No screens. I remember.” He lasts another ten seconds before he groans and tips his head over the armrest. “I’m not going to be able to do this.”

“I’m almost finished,” Fell says from the kitchen. It sounds like he’s laughing. The refrigerator door opens and then shuts again. “Okay,” he says. “I’m done. Are you keeping your eyes closed?”

Crowley hurriedly shuts them again. “Yes.”

Fell clicks his tongue as he crosses the living room back to the couch. “I thought as much. And to think we neglected the part of the conversation as regards to discipline.” Crowley feels a tap on his foot. “Legs up.” 

Crowley raises his eyebrows but lifts his feet up from the sofa. He feels the cushion sink under Fell’s weight. “Discipline?” he asks, after Fell’s had a moment to settle. He’s pretty sure Fell is teasing, but he actually doesn’t know. 

Fell chuckles, which would hold with the teasing idea, except his tone is perfectly serious. “Yes,” he says, taking Crowley’s feet and tucking them onto his lap, resting his bad arm on Crowley’s shins. “But that’s a conversation for another day.”

“I don’t know,” Crowley says, waggling his eyebrows. “I think I’m rather interested now.”

Fell pinches one of Crowley’s toes. “I knew you were a brat.” His tone is fond. “Later, I promise. How’s your head?”

Crowley sighs but relaxes into the sofa. It’s easier than it was before now that Fell’s sat down. “A little better. This sofa is really nice.” 

“It is,” Fell agrees. “I have to admit I’ve fallen asleep on it more than once.” 

Crowley chuckles. “Got lost in a book, did you?” He nudges Fell with his foot. “Or have you been working too hard?”

“I had to catch up to you, didn’t I?” Fell says lightly. His thumb starts to stoke along Crowley’s ankle. “We only learned about Douglas a few days before we met. There was a lot to go over in a short period of time. You did excellent work on his case, by the way. Your notes were quite thorough.”

Crowley feels a warm glow at the praise. He _ did  _ do excellent work. It’s nice to hear. Beeze isn’t the sort to pat him on the back. He loves them but he gets a grunt when he solves a case and a beer at the bar when he solves two. “Thanks.”

“It’s true. Still,” Fell looks around, “it has been a while since I’ve just sat back and relaxed. And I can’t even remember the last time I had time off. Two whole weeks…” 

Beeze had reinforced the order at the hospital. Gabriel had looked shocked for a second before very pointedly seconding it. He’d been looking at Beeze while he did. Crowley had raised an eyebrow at Beeze and Beeze had _ smiled  _ and Gabriel had looked pleased and Crowley was Not Going There. 

“You’re not wrong about working too hard, though,” Fell goes on. “I’m glad I’ve got you here. I might have thought about sneaking back into the office if you weren’t.”

Crowley laughs at the mental image of Fell ducking his head as he tried to edge past Interpol security. “I don’t think you would have gotten very far. I bet you ten-to-one Gabriel has locked you out of the building.”

Fell hmm’s. “I don’t know, he might have just given the front door my name.”

“No, he totally locked you out, because Beeze locked _ me  _ out — ow, don’t pinch me! I didn’t check! That’s what they did the last time!”

Fell makes a face. Crowley realizes he can see that and hurriedly shuts his eyes again. “Anyways,” he says to distract Fell, “like you’re one to talk. You were absolutely thinking about sneaking back in a second ago.”

Fell hums. “Well, you have me there.” He squeezes Crowley’s toes. “There will be no sneaking out this time though, will there?”

“No,” Crowley promises and then picks at his jogging pants for a minute. “I guess we’ll, ah, both be good for each other?”

He can hear the smile in Fell’s voice when he replies. “I like to think so.” Fell’s thumb moves to the arch of Crowley’s foot. “In that spirit, we’ll just sit here for a bit. Wait for your head to quiet and enjoy the company. There’s nowhere to be.”

“I suppose,” Crowley says. He nudges Fell again. “Though we could do all of this from your bed, you know.”

Fell chuckles. “Later, darling.” He pats Crowley’s leg. “Just sit for now. Rest.”

Crowley’s never been very good at resting. It’s easier to do with Fell beside him on the sofa. Whenever his mind starts to tumble, Fell strokes his ankle, or thumbs idly at his toes, or goes back to rubbing circles into his heels. Slowly Crowley’s head — which had actually been hurting quite a lot — settles. He drifts. Fell shifts a few times and gets up once. Crowley resists the urge to move and manages to stay relaxed where he is. Eventually, when his headache has become a distant memory, Crowley opens his eyes.

Fell’s sitting comfortably at his end of the sofa. Crowley’s feet are back in his lap. He’s shifted his cast to a pillow resting on Crowley’s legs and is using his good hand to hold a book. There are reading glasses perched on his nose but he seems to be looking over them as much as through. He looks perfectly content.

Crowley smiles. He isn’t big on photographs, but he’d take a picture of this. It’s absolutely perfect. 

He must have made a sound, or maybe shifted a little, because Fell looks over. 

“Hello,” he says, catching Crowley’s eye. He puts down his book with a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Crowley admits. 

Fell scans his face. “Is your headache gone?”

“Pretty much.”

“Nausea?”

Crowley takes a moment to think about it. “No,” he says surprised. “I might even be hungry.”

Fell grins. “Well, we can certainly do something about that.” He shifts Crowley’s feet off his lap and stands. Crowley moves to follow him but Fell puts a hand out. “No. Stay.” His voice drops. “Let me take care of you.”

Crowley looks up at him. “Uh.”

Fell smiles. It’s a small thing, just an upturning of the lips, but there’s a core of command behind it. Of expectation. Crowley flushes hot. “Okay.”

Fell looks pleased. It makes Crowley whole body tingle, the idea that he just made Fell happy, that such a small thing caused him to look at Crowley with those eyes. It makes it easier to stay on the couch as Fell walks to the kitchen. The refrigerator door opens and closes. A moment later Fell reappears with a simple platter in his hands. 

“Ooo,” Crowley says, blinking and sitting up. “Snackies.” 

Fell chuckles. “I may be bad at stocking actual food but I am always able to put together a charcuterie board.” He lays the food on the table and goes back for a pitcher of what looks like sparkling water. Pouring each of them a glass, he takes his and sits back on the couch, noticeably closer than he was before. “Does it look good?”

“Yes,” Crowley assures him. “Absolutely.” There are sliced meat and tiny sausages, some cheeses he recognizes and some he doesn’t. All rounded out by a small bowl of olives and a bunch of bright green grapes. “Delicious.”

“Good,” Fell says. His eyes stay very steady on Crowley’s face. “Is there anything here you don’t enjoy?”

Crowley starts to reply, gets caught by Fell’s gaze, and stutters instead. “N— no.”

Fell lifts an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Look carefully.”

Crowley swallows and checks again. The tiny sausages are flecked with red. They’re probably spicey, but Crowley’s okay with that. He doesn’t mind a little heat. Everything else looks delicious. “I’m sure,” he says confidently. Then, because he can’t help but get a little of his own back, he looks up at Fell through his lashes. “You did well.”

Instead of getting flustered, Fell’s eyes flash. “Good.” He leans closer to Crowley, lifting his bad arm so the cast rests along the back of the couch, and peers carefully into Crowley’s eyes. “How’s your head?”

Crowley feels a frisson of want run up his spine. It’s not even lust, at least not entirely. He just _ wants.  _ “It’s fine. I told you.”

Fell smiles and raises his good hand. Moving slowly, he cups Crowley’s face, very gently stroking his thumb across Crowley’s cheek. “Just checking.”

Crowley can’t help but lean into the touch. “I know.”

Fell’s smile grows. He sweeps his thumb one last time before letting go. “Have a grape first,” he says, turning to the patter. “They’re sweet.”

Crowley has to close his eyes and take a deep breath to regain his balance, and not because of the concussion. “Okay,” he manages, opening his eyes.

Fell is waiting, his gaze steady, a plump, juicy grape in one hand. Crowley grins. Daringly he leans towards Fell and opens his mouth. 

Fell’s lips quirk. He reaches out and lays the grape very gently on Crowley’s tongue. Crowley crunches down on it. 

“Mm,” he murmurs, swallowing quickly to capture all the juices. “Very sweet.”

Fell smiles and brushes his thumb across Crowley’s chin. “Good.” He chooses another morsel from the platter. “How about the brie, now? It goes well with the grapes.”

Crowley smiles and opens his mouth again. Fell’s eyes darken. They slowly make their way through most of the platter. Fell takes a few bites for himself but mostly makes sure that Crowley is fed. They alternate textures and flavours, going from the salty brie to the spicy sausages, back to the grapes, and then to the olives. After that, there’s a sharp cheese that Crowley adores and a thinly sliced meat that almost melts on his tongue.

“Mumgh,” Crowley says, when the platter is almost done. “I think I’m getting full, angel.”

“Alright.” Fell sets the piece of cheese he’d picked up back on the platter. “That’s enough for now, then. We are going to have to order something later, but this should be enough to tide us over.”

Crowley smiles and lays his head on the back of the couch. “You going to eat the rest?”

Fell nods. “Later.” He bends forward and kisses Crowley gently on the nose. “I’d like you to wait here for five minutes, please. Can you do that?”

Crowley nods sleepily and closes his eyes. “Yup.”

He can hear the grin in Fell’s voice. “Good.” The seat cushion shifts as Fell stands up. Crowley hears him walk away in the vague direction of the bathroom. They’d talked about Fell’s plan for the evening, so he isn’t entirely surprised, but he feels drunk off light touches and that delicate little kiss, so he’s content to sit here for a moment and wait.

Sure enough, a moment later Crowly hears the water start to run. Fell is filling the bath. It effectively hides the sounds of anything else being done in the bathroom. Crowley assumes Fell is using the facilities but the time stretches longer than he’d been expecting. It’s closer to ten minutes than five when the water shuts off and Fell finally appears, rousing Crowley with a gentle touch to his arm. 

“Hello, lovely,” Fell says, his voice low. “Ready now?”

“Mmm,” Crowley agrees. He doesn’t actually need help to rise from the couch but he takes Fell’s hand anyway, enjoying the feeling of skin on skin but careful not to put too much weight on Fell as he stands. Fell gifts him with another pleased look and then leads him the few steps to the bathroom. Crowley breathes in deep as they go, inhaling the scent of warm steam and something else. Frankincense, maybe? 

“Oh,” Crowley says as he steps into the bathroom. Fell has a hedonistic set up. There’s a claw-foot tub that looks ancient, the polish on the feet unable to remove all the patina of age. Small tea candles have scattered about, each wick freshly trimmed so the light hardly wavers. Several bottles have been set on the floor by the tub. There are fresh towels folded on top of the radiator.

“This looks— ” Crowley starts, and then blinks and steps closer. There are honest-to-goodness _ rose petals  _ in the bath. “Wow. When you said you wanted to spoil me, I didn’t think you meant to go this far.” 

Fell’s voice is warm. “I certainly did.” He puts a hand on Crowley’s arm. “Do you need help getting undressed?”

Crowley clears his throat. “That depends,” he says, finding his voice. “Are you offering to let me tempt you?”

Fell chuckles. “No. I’m going to make you stand there and do nothing while I strip you.”

Crowley shivers. “In that case, yes. I absolutely need help.”

Fell grins and steps around him, lifting his good arm to Crowley’s throat. “I may actually need you to assist me, but we’ll see.” He starts to undo the buttons of Crowley’s shirt with one hand. “I’m very thankful that Beelzebub brought you a button up to wear.”

“Probably the only one I own,” Crowley admits. The pad of Fell’s thumb brushes against his chest and he sucks in a breath. “You know,” he starts, “it, ah, might be easier for you to reach if I get on my knees.”

Fell laughs. “Nice try.”

Crowley grins. “Couldn’t hurt.”

“Hmm,” Fell says. He undoes the last button and brushes his hand over Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley pushes into Fell’s touch but Fell doesn’t stop, just eases the shirt down Crowley’s arm. It doesn’t quite fall off Crowley’s wrist, stopped by the button there, and Fell doesn’t push it. Instead he trails his fingers gently up Crowley’s inner arm. When he reaches the divot of Crowley’s elbow he strokes the sensitive skin there once and then moves to Crowley’s other side. 

Crowley bites back a groan and Fell smiles. Fell guides the shirt over that shoulder, too. Crowley isn’t sure if it’s his imagination or if Fell goes slower this time, pressing the pads of his fingertips into Crowley’s skin. He _ definitely  _ lets his hand linger on Crowley’s arm as he slides the shirt down. Holding the fabric, he walks around behind Crowley’s back, using the shirt to bring Crowley’s wrists together. Crowley can’t hold back the noise he makes when Fell twists the fabric to force Crowley’s wrists tight.

“Alright?” Fell asks, his voice slightly breathless, his firm grip forcing Crowley’s shoulders back.

“Gugh,” Crowley manages. His eyes flutter shut. It’s not his fault. How is he supposed to be able to form _ words?  _

Fell laughs gently and presses a feather-like kiss to the shell of Crowley’s ear. “Handcuffs would be okay, then?”

Crowley’s tried them before — he’s a detective, of _ course  _ he has — and before this weekend his response would have been a categorical no. Fell, it seems, has changed all the rules. “Yes, please.”

Fell gives him another kiss, this time to the back of his shoulder, and steps away. “Noted.” He lets go of Crowley’s wrists and tugs the shirt the rest of the way off. Crowley opens his mouth to object but Fell places a warm hand on his arm. “I’m going to put this in the hallway,” he says. “Don’t move.” 

“O— ” Crowley has to swallow. Since when is being told what to do _ sexy?  _ “Okay.”

Fell leans forward and smiles against his shoulder. “Good boy.”

Crowley’s still shivering from that when Fell returns. He pauses in the doorway, gives Crowley a smile, and then brushes past him to check the temperature of the bath. Nodding satisfactorily, he steps back to Crowley’s side and puts a hand on his arm. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Crowley says. He doesn’t even pretend he isn’t pushing into Fell’s touch now. “Could be better.” He manages an eyebrow waggle. “Could be naked.”

Fell gives him a nonplussed look in response. “How’s your head?”

Crowley huffs out a breath. “It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.” The candles might be a problem at some point but they’re okay for now. Crowley likes the way they chase shadows across Fell’s face. “I’m good. Stop fussing, angel.”

“Alright,” Fell says. He steps in closer and lifts both of his hands, placing them very deliberately on Crowley’s waist. Crowley sucks in a breath. Fell looks up at him, the edge of his smile wicked, and then runs his good hand up Crowley’s side. He stretches his fingers and Crowley feels the heat of him like a brand. Crowley makes a gutteral sort of sound and Fell smiles — satisfied — and then circles around, the pad of his thumb following the line of Crowley’s ribcage all the way to his spine. 

Crowley’s skin tingles. He swears he can feel Fell behind him, not just his hand but the whole person of him, his presence. Fell raises his bad hand and presses the tips of his fingers to Crowley’s skin. His index finger traces down until it hooks into the loose elastic waist of Crowley’s pants. His good hand comes down to mirror the bad, gripping more firmly on his good side. Fell leans in and Crowley shudders, the delicate skin of Fell’s bottom lip is just barely brushing Crowley’s ear. Crowley can feel the heat of his breath when Fell says, “I’m going to take your pants off now.”

Crowley’s breath hitches. “‘K,” he manages, and then moans as Fell pushes firmly down on his hips. Fell’s bad hand isn’t as strong as his good but the loose jogging pants Beeze had brought slide effortlessly down Crowley’s thighs, leaving only his boxers behind. Crowley hopes desperately the boxers will shortly follow, but instead Fell sinks to his knees, which is _ infinitely  _ better. Fell doesn’t touch him other than to guide the pants down Crowley’s shins, though, the warmth of his fingers tracing whorls over Crowley’s ankles and then his heels. 

It should be frustrating, but it feels precious instead. Fell is being gentle, his touch firm but light, his hands steady. It makes Crowley ache. He’s not the sort of person other people are careful with. 

Crowley closes his eyes and sways towards Fell, pushing back on his heels. “Please.” 

Fell, still on his knees behind Crowley, clicks his tongue. “Please, what?”

“Please keep touching me. Please let me touch you. Please _ anything.”  _

Fell runs a hand up the back of Crowley’s knees. “Not yet.” He presses a kiss to the back of Crowley’s thigh and then stands.

“Why not?” Crowley groans.

“Because,” Fell says, pressing another kiss to Crowley’s skin, this one to the back of Crowley’s neck, “I can control myself, but the moment you start touching me neither one of us is going to want you to stop.” 

“And that’s a bad thing?” Crowley tries to make it a question but he’s pretty sure at this point it’s mostly a whine. 

Fell chuckles and steps around. He’s still fully dressed and holding Crowley’s pants. Crowley feels very naked despite the boxers still doing their best to preserve his modesty. 

“My dear,” Fell says. His gaze trails up Crowley’s legs, lingers on his chest, and then finally meets his eyes. Crowley has to lick his lips. Fell looks _ hungry.  _

And yet there is that control, the tempered steel behind the blue, blue eyes. 

“It’s not a bad thing to fall into touch,” Fell goes on, “but I have plans for this evening, and they begin with getting you clean. Now I think this is quite enough temptation for the both of us. I’ll just step outside for a moment and put these down.” He drapes Crowley’s pants over his cast, crooking his elbow to hold them. “You can finish getting yourself undressed.”

Crowley groans. “Really? Come on.”

Fell raises an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

Crowley opens his mouth and closes it, several times. Finally he huffs. “Bastard.”

Fell just grins. He leans forward and ghosts his hand over Crowley’s waist,  _ just  _ above his groin, close enough to tease. Crowley splutters and pushes his hips forward. Fell laughs. “No, no,” he says, leaning away again. “Take your time. Use the facilities if you need to and get in the bath when you're done. Call through the door for help if you find yourself in need.” 

Crowley wonders if grabbing Fell by the shoulders, spinning him around into the wall, and then pushing his hips wantonly into Fell’s arse would counteract the ‘do nothing’ command of earlier. It probably would. The question is, does he care? “Oh, I’ll need help, unless I’m allowed to jerk myself off?”

Fell’s eyes flash, just as Crowley had intended them to. “Absolutely not.”

Crowley grins. “Well then I’ll _ definitely  _ need help.”

Fell pinches his thigh. “Wicked thing.”

“Mm,” Crowley says. He cocks his hip and catches Fell’s eye, pitching his voice deliberately low. “You haven’t seen nothing yet.”

Fell’s eyes are very dark. He still steps away. “I’m sure.” 

Damn. Crowley really thought that would work. “Angel.”

Fell raises an eyebrow. 

“Ugh,” Crowley groans. He rolls his eyes. “Fine, you win. I’ll be good.”

“I never doubted it, my dear.” Fell is clearly lying. He steps forward again and presses a kiss to Crowley’s cheek. “Call me if you need me.”

Crowley very heroically doesn’t grab him and push him into the wall. Instead he waits for Fell to step out and close the door. The moment it does Crowley rips his underwear off. 

It feels heavenly for about two seconds and then Crowley has to groan. Oh, _ Christ.  _ That might have been a mistake because now he _ itches  _ to take himself in hand. It wouldn’t take long to get himself off, he could flush the evidence away down the toilet, Fell would _ never know.  _

Except he would, he totally would, and, just like on the island, Crowley can’t deny that it feels good to do what Fell wants. Even if what Fell wants is for Crowley to die a little inside. 

_ Ugh.  _ Heaving a sigh that could rattle windows, Crowley puts his hands behind his back to reduce the temptation and counts backwards from twenty. When he’s finished, he uses the facilities, washes his hands, and then approaches the bath. It is a very intimidating looking bath. Thankfully there’s a cream-coloured mat to steady his footing as he very carefully steps over the lip and into the tub.

He can’t help the noise that escapes through his lips. The water feels lovely. It’s deliciously warm but not too hot. Crowley sits down and discovers to his delight that the tub is almost long enough for him to stretch out. He lays his head against the back of the tub and only remembers after a minute that he’s supposed to tell Fell he hasn’t slipped and died. “I’m in!”

Fell taps on the door twice before opening it. He’s frowning as he walks in. “Is everything all— Oh.” He catches his breath and stares. 

Crowley frowns. “What?” A prickle of concern runs down his spine. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Not at all, darling,” Fell assures him. “Not at all.” He steps forward and sinks to his knees, proving that the cream-coloured bath mat isn’t just there for Crowley’s benefit. “You look exactly as I had pictured you would.” He takes one of Crowley’s hands and raises it to his lips. “Absolutely lovely.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, and colours. He doesn’t see what’s so wonderful himself. His hair is probably plastered to his forehead and his poky knees are sticking out of the water. Still, the rose petals are nice. “If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Fell assures him. He lets go of Crowley’s hand and brushes his fingers against the water. “Not too hot for you?”

“It’s perfect,” Crowley promises. 

“Good. I’m going to get the platter, then. Do you want anything else?”

From anyone else it would be a throwaway line but Crowley can tell that Fell means it. It makes Crowley pause and think for a moment. “Maybe a glass of water?”

Fell beams. He leans over to kiss Crowley’s forehead. “Absolutely. Thank you for telling me, darling. Anything else?”

Mm, darling. Crowley likes that one. “Uh, no. I don’t think so.” 

“Very well, I’ll be just a moment.”

“Take your time,” Crowley says, leaning back in the tub. “I’m good here.”

Fell looks pleased. He walks out of the bathroom in the direction of the kitchen. Crowley ducks his head under the water to wet his hair and then sits back, relaxing against the rear of the tub and luxuriating in the perfect temperature of the bath. Distantly, he can hear the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing again, and then Fell is back. He’s carrying the platter with the water pitcher stacked on top in his good hand and their two empty glasses in the fingers of his bad.

Crowley sits up so quickly he splashes water over the side. “Whoa, be careful! Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I won’t,” Fell assures him. “If you could take the glasses, though? I don’t think I can put them down without dropping the food.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes and accepts the glasses. “Heaven forbid. You should be more careful, angel.”

Fell makes a face. He sets down the platter and then steps out again, returning a moment later with a chair Crowley thinks might have come from the kitchen. “There,” Fell says, setting it up beside the bath. “Now we’re set.”

Crowley still isn’t happy. “I don’t want you waiting on my hand and foot, especially not if you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Fell looks down at his cast and sighs. “I know. I should have carried in one thing at a time.” He drops a hand towel on the floor to mop up the water. “I detest this cast. I cannot wait for it to come off.”

Crowley relaxes back into the tub. “How long did the doctor say?”

“Four to six weeks,” Fell says glumly. He pours them both a glass of water. 

Crowley reaches out a hand for his. “Can you have a shower in it, at least?” 

“Yes, thankfully,” Fell says. His fingers brush Crowley’s as he passes the glass. He meets Crowley’s eyes and gives him a half smile. “Actually, it’s completely waterproof. I could slip in the tub with you right now.”

“Oh,” Crowley says with a grin. “Well in _ that  _ case.” He shifts back in the bath.

Fell laughs and sits back in his chair. “No, dear boy, the bath is for you. It’s not large enough for the two of us really, and besides,” he grins, “I enjoy appreciating the sight of you wet while remaining perfectly dry.”

Crowley grumbles but lays back in the bath. “‘Perfectly’ just about sums it up, too.”

Fell winks and takes a sip of his water. “Mm,” he says, and stretches both legs out. “This is nice.” He reaches for a slice of brie. 

Crowley nods and lets his shoulders slip under the water. It means he has to bunch up his knees, but oh well. Fell’s already seen how poky he is. “Hey, are there any more of those grapes?”

They nibble away at the rest of the food while the bath slowly cools. Crowley has to admit after another ten minutes that the candles are making his head hurt again, for all that they don’t splutter too much. Rather than being disappointed, Fell looks thrilled that Crowley told him. He blows out the candles and turns on the hall light, closing the bathroom door partway so it’s not too bright. 

“Can I wash your hair now, darling?” Fell finally asks, when another ten minutes or so have gone by. Crowley is feeling rather pruney. 

“Yes, please,” Crowley says. He’s been daydreaming on and off about Fell’s hands in his hair ever since Fell had described in broad strokes his plans for the evening.

Fell smiles as though he’s reading Crowley’s mind and sets his sparkling water on the floor. Sinking again to his knees on the cream-coloured rug, Fell selects one of the bottles he had placed by the tub. “Head back, now,” he says. “Dip under the water for me.”

Crowley nods and lays back in the tub. He closes his eyes. A moment later there’s a gentle touch on his shoulder and then another on his neck. He shifts and lifts his head.

“There we go,” Fell says quietly. “Sit up and keep your eyes closed. Yes, like that. Now tilt your head back. Excellent. Just relax now, darling.”

Crowley does as he says even as his mouth opens to invite _ other  _ ways Fell might get him to relax. The words evaporate the moment Fell touches his hair, though, blowing away in the total bliss that is Fell’s hand on Crowley’s head. Fell’s fingers scrunch and Crowley groans, recognizing with some part of his brain that Fell must have already spread shampoo over his palm. Fell’s fingers dig effortlessly into Crowley’s hair, parting strands and raising bubbles. It’s perfect even if it’s a little awkward because Fell only has one hand. Crowley’s pretty sure his brain would melt out of his ears if Fell were able to use two. “Mmmuughgh.”

Fell chuckles lightly. “Yes, indeed.” His nails scratch gently and Crowley shivers. “I see,” Fell says. “You like that, do you?”

Crowley mumbles something nonverbal and rests his head back in Fell’s hand. 

“Mmhm,” Fell says, and then he chuckles. “Oh dear, you’ve got me doing it, too.”

Crowley smiles and presses his temple into Fell’s fingers. Fell accepts the weight, taking his time working the shampoo into Crowley’s scalp. “Very well,” he says after another several minutes. “All done. Down in the water again, my dear. There you go.”

Crowley lays in the bottom of the tub as Fell carefully rinses the bubbles from his hair. A tap on the shoulder means it’s time to come up again. He relaxes further as Fell repeats the experience with the conditioner. Fell seems to take an even longer time getting Crowley’s hair silky smooth. He doesn’t complain. In the end, Crowley is a warm mush and Fell is soft-eyed and happy.

“That was very nice,” Fell says, drying his hand on a towel. “Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley lays back in the tub, the washed out shampoo and conditioner mixing with the rose petals. “Thank _ you,  _ angel. That was lovely. You can do that again. Anytime you like, in fact.”

Fell’s smile broadens. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He shifts back onto his heels. “As for now, I’m afraid it’s time to get out. The water is getting cold.”

Crowley thinks about pouting, but then he remembers what after the bath means. “Going to finally show me to your room then?”

Fell laughs quietly. “Oh my, you make us sound sixteen, my dear.”

Crowley grins. “I bet you were a riot at sixteen.”

“Quite the opposite, I am afraid. Quiet and boring mostly.”

“No,” Crowley argues, “I can’t ever imagine you boring. I bet that was just what most people saw. The good little angel.” He grins. “You would still have been a bastard underneath.”

Fell winks. “Perhaps.” He extends his good hand and helps Crowley up. “And what about you?”

Crowley immediately misses the warmth of the bath. He shivers. Thankfully Fell is there with the towel kept warm over the radiator. “Mm, thank you angel. Me at sixteen?” He makes a face. “Just a wanker, really.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Fell says softly. He steps in close and rubs Crowley’s arms through the towel. “That might have been what most people saw, but I’m sure you were just as lovely to any who spent the time to get to know you.”

Crowley thinks back to that unhappy house. He’s not sure he can agree. “I wish I had met you at sixteen.”

“I do as well, my dear,” Fell says. Then he grins suddenly and hugs Crowley close, his arms strong and sure through the towel. “And yet the boy you were grew up to be the man you are, and the man you are is simply perfect.”

Crowley makes a face. “Can’t say I agree with you there, angel.”

“You don’t have to agree with me,” Fell replies. He tucks the towel in at the corners so it stays secure. “You just have to do as I say.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley asks with a grin. “And what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you are absolutely delicious and I can’t wait to get my hands on you.” Fell tugs Crowley forward. “So yes, we _ are  _ going to my bedroom now.”

Crowley laughs. Wrapping the towel more securely around himself to keep out the cold, Crowley steps out of the bathroom and follows Fell down the hall.

  
  
  


  
  
  
  



	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because sometimes we deserve porn...
> 
> (tags have been updated!)

  
  
  


Fell turns the hall light off as he leads the way to his bedroom. The kitchen light is still on so it’s dim but not impossible to see. There’s only one door that could lead to a bedroom and Fell walks them towards it with a bounce in his step that makes Crowley grin.

“We could just have made out in the bathroom for a while, you know,” Crowley teases, leaning in as Fell puts his hand on the knob.

Fell turns and looks back at him, arching an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Crowley presses forward, plastering himself against Fell’s shoulder. He loves the fact that he’s naked but for a towel and that Fell is still fully dressed. “Yeah.”

Fell cocks his head. After a moment he lets go of the knob and turns towards Crowley. Crowley’s cocksure grin dissolves as Fell threads his good hand through Crowley’s damp hair, takes a firm grip, and twists. Crowley gasps. Fell is there the moment he does, slotting their mouths together and demanding his way into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley groans and Fell swallows the sound. 

It’s delicious but Crowley, greedy thing that he is, wants more. He presses forward. Fell had wrapped the towel around his shoulders and Crowley enjoys the feeling of his toweled chest against Fell’s buttoned shirt. He reaches for Fell’s ass. Fell grins and pulls Crowley’s hair again. Crowley yelps and lets go. 

Fell chuckles, nudging Crowley’s feet apart so Crowley’s shorter than him and tipping Crowley’s head back with the hand still twisted in Crowley’s hair. “Naughty boy.”

“Nuugh,” Crowley manages as Fell starts kissing his way down Crowley’s throat. “You know me.”

“I’m learning,” Fell agrees with a smile in his voice. He sucks a bite directly over Crowley’s pulse point. “You know, there’s something I’ve always wanted to try.”

“Oh?” Crowley’s breath hitches. “What’s that?”

“This,” Fell says and twists, grabbing with his good hand and pushing with his hips. He spins them around. Where Crowley had been pressing Fell to the door, now _Crowley_ is the one being crowded against the wood.

Crowley gasps. “Hell yeah.”

Fell isn’t done yet. With a wicked grin Fell kicks Crowley’s legs apart, steps between them, and slots their hips together, pressing them chest to chest. Crowley moans and Fell is there, so close that Crowley can’t breath without feeling like he’s pushing into Fell’s chest. It’s _perfect._ Fell’s lips are rough, chapped from the dry air of the hospital. They grate against his own, forcing his lips apart, battling with his tongue. Crowley shudders. It feels like Fell is trying to devour him. He holds his own under the relentless assault until Fell growls and bites his lower lip and then Crowley sucks in a breath, gasps, and surrenders. Fuck it. It might kill him to be eaten alive but what a way to go.

Fell plunders him the way a victorious conquer should, kissing Crowley until he forgets his own name. Eventually, though, Crowley feels the brush of Fell’s hand and notices that Fell is reaching for something on the door. It’s hard to concentrate, all of the blood in his body is being redirected to places _far_ more important than his brain, but then Fell’s wrist turns and suddenly the bedroom door is opening.

Crowley gasps. Fell pulls him close, holding him with his good arm as the door opens. They grin into each other’s mouth as they tumble past the doorway, laughing as they stumble but don’t quite fall.

Fell bites at Crowley’s mouth. He doesn’t stop, using his momentum to herd Crowley into the room. 

Crowley laughs, trying to kiss back even as he goes. When his legs hit something soft he stops. Fell doesn’t. Crowley falls backwards with a laugh. 

He lands on a bed. Still grinning, Crowley looks around. He’s in Fell’s bedroom alright. Crowley doesn’t have time for more than a quick glance but he notices light wood floors, cream coloured carpets, and books _. Lots_ of books. Stacked on shelves and piled on nightstands, crammed into corners and pushed against walls. There are no books on the bed, however. It’s made of solid wood, has four sturdy-looking posts, and is covered in a light blue comforter. 

Then Fell is pressing him into the mattress and Crowley ignores everything to grin up at him. “You’ve always wanted to trip a guy backwards into a room?”

Fell grins at him. “I always thought it was the most romantic way to invite someone to your bed.”

Crowley laughs. “Mr Romance.”

Fell bites at his mouth. “Of course. I _do_ have other entrances planned, but they will have to wait until both of us are healed.”

Crowley hums. He steals another kiss and then wiggles backwards, scooting back on the bed so Fell has room to climb up. “I assume these other entrances are less PG-rated. Can I ask or would that spoil the surprise?”

“You can ask,” Fell says, his eyes dancing as he takes Crowley’s invitation and climbs up, “but I’m under no obligation to tell you. Let’s just say they involve your collar.” He leans over and bites playfully at Crowley’s neck. “And a leash.”

“Oh no,” Crowley groans, maybe just a touch theatrical. Possibly. “Come on.”

Fell chuckles. He presses a kiss into Crowley’s skin and then rolls onto his side, laying on his good arm beside Crowley. Raising his cast, he rests it on Crowley’s hips and starts rubbing his thumb over the rough fabric of Crowley’s towel. It slipped a little down his chest but has caught at his waist. “I think you’d enjoy it. Might take a little convincing.”

Crowley pretends to growl. “Better make that a lot of convincing. If you want me to put the leash on again I’ll need blowjobs, flowers, the whole nine-yards.”

Fell drops his voice, fingers stilling as he looks into Crowley’s eyes. “Is that right?” Fuck, his voice is a _purr._ “I’d better write that down, then.”

“Ngk,” Crowley manages. He can feel himself turning red. “I’d— You’d— Yeah.”

Fell grins, low and feral, until his eyes drop down to his cast and his expression falls. “Not that we’ll be getting to something of that sort any time soon.” He makes a face and shifts, sitting up so he’s facing Crowley on the bed. “At the moment, having to make do as we are, I’ve had to be a little creative.”

“Creative’s okay,” Crowley assures him. “I like being creative.” 

Fell looks at him fondly. “I bet you do. How many rules have you ‘creatively’ broken, I wonder?”

Crowley laughs. “More than I’ve stopped to count, that’s for sure.” He raises his arms over his head and stretches, cracking his shoulders even as he pushes down with his heels. “Mmm. Feel free to elaborate on the sort of creative you’ve been thinking, though.”

Fell’s eyes darken. “I think I’ll do that.” He sweeps his gaze over Crowley’s skin.

Crowley realizes the towel has slipped a little further down his waist. “Oh.” He wiggles slightly. “See anything you like?”

“Yes,” Fell says, his voice low. “I do.” 

Crowley grins, cocky, but instead of leaning in, Fell sits back. He shifts so he’s comfortable against the pillows and folds his hands in his lap. “I see something I like very much.”

Crowley waits for Fell to make a move. When nothing happens, he frowns. “Well?”

“Hm?” Fell isn’t looking at Crowley’s face. Instead he’s gazing, very intently, at Crowley’s body. His eyes move down Crowley’s skin, trailing slowly — savoring — down his chest. “Yes, dear?”

Crowley shivers. “Ah, what— What are you doing?”

Fell smiles. It’s not a cruel smile but it isn’t sunshine and rainbows, either. It’s patient and hungry. Devious and sinful. “I’m seeing something I like.”

“Oh.” Crowley runs his tongue over the edge of his teeth. He suddenly feels _very_ naked. He suppresses another shiver. “Okay.”

Fell chuckles. His eyes flick up to Crowley’s and they’re so full — of want, of satisfaction, of confidence and devilry. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“Uhhh. Yes? No?” Crowley looks at the ceiling, his arms still stretched over his head. “I don’t know.”

Fell makes a considering noise. “You like to be looked at, don’t you?”

Crowley can’t deny this. He’s already admitted it a thousand times. “Yes.”

Fell’s lip quirks up. “You know what you look like, what a pretty picture you make. Yet as much as you want the attention, it scares you. You’re always afraid that someone will see deeper, will see past the flash and the sunglasses to the inside of you.” Fell’s voice drops. “You hate the attention but you crave it, too. That’s why you liked it when I tied you up. When you were at my mercy there was nothing you could do but take it, accept the focus you’ve always craved.” 

Crowley touches his tongue to the roof of his mouth. His skin feels tight. “Nngh.”

He can hear the satisfaction in Fell’s voice. “Yes. Well I see you, Crowley. All of you. You’re so beautiful, but, more than that, you’re _good._ I want it all. Every piece. I want the warmth and the tears, the golden boy and the gritty man. I want you to give every bit of yourself to me.” He hasn’t stopped looking and his gaze is a weight on Crowley’s skin. Only instead of holding him down, it tucks him in and grounds him even as it gives him wings, making him feel as though he could fly. “I don’t want you to move,” Fell goes on. His voice is hypnotic. “I want you to let me see, let me look at you. Can you do that for me?”

Crowley has to close his eyes. His entire body is thrumming. He’s hard but, more than that, he _aches._ “Yes.”

“Good,” Fell says, and then he’s silent. Crowley tips his head back and breathes, each inhale rattling his chest. When Crowley does finally manage to get his eyes open again Fell is leaning forward, still staring at him. The corner of Fell’s mouth is curled up. “Very good. So very good for me.” 

Crowley jerks. “Ghah.”

Fell’s eyes darken. He licks his lips. “Yes. Good.” Fuck, his eyes are a _brand._ “And good boys deserve rewards.”

“Wh— what’s my reward then?” He’s got to get his mouth under control. Stuttering cannot be sexy. “Are you going to touch me at some point in the next million years?”

“I am,” Fell promises. “In fact, I’m going to spend quite a lot of time touching you. Is that okay?”

“Yes. Please.” 

Fell’s lip quirks in a smile. “I see.” Moving slowly he slides off the bed, kneeling so he stays at eye level. Leaning forward he lifts his good hand, extends one finger, and brushes the tip of it against Crowley’s collar bone. 

Crowley jerks. “Ah!”

Fell tutt’s. “I meant it about not moving, darling.” He runs the pad of his finger lightly across Crowley’s skin. Crowley _burns._ “I need you to stay still for me.” His lips quirk in a grin. “After all, I’m not particularly mobile myself right now.”

Fell’s single, solitary touch feels like lightning. Crowley fights past it to manage an eyeroll. “Yeah, right. Anyone who underestimates what you could do with one hand doesn’t know you very well.”

Fell laughs. “I always knew you were smart.” He slides the smooth back of his nail up the side of Crowley’s neck and then scratches the tip of it back down again, completely ignoring Crowley’s whimper. “That being said, I’m very comfortable here.”

Crowley swallows heavily. He’s once again aware that he’s lying mostly naked on the bed with Fell kneeling beside him, fully dressed. Fell reinforces the point by circling the knob of Crowley’s collar bone and then sliding the tip of his finger down Crowley’s side.

Crowley pants through his open mouth. He never knew his skin was so _sensitive._ “Wh— what are you going to do?”

Fell smiles. “I’m going to appreciate you. _All_ of you, like I said.”

Crowley bites his bottom lip. He might not survive this. “How?”

“I’ll show you.”

He starts with Crowley’s neck. Without lifting his finger from Crowley’s skin he follows the line from Crowley’s neck to his shoulder and back again, scratching his way down the front and running the smooth of his nail back up. “You have beautiful shoulders,” Fell says softly. “I want to test the strength of them. I want to bite them and then measure how long it takes the mark of my teeth to fade. I want to see your shoulders though a hundred thousand combinations. I want them straight and unbowed and hunched over in supplication. I want to press my thumb into your collarbone and hold you there with just a touch.” He brushes the pad of that digit against Crowley’s shoulder, making Crowley shake.

Fell stills him by pressing harder. “Yes,” he says with a voice like marble, hard and soft at the same time. “Take it.” His lips quirk up. “Stay.”

Crowley exhales a breath that catches at least twice on the way out. “Such strict training,” he manages. His heart is pounding. “Do you give treats, too?”

“You’ve already earned one,” Fell promises. He bends forward and slides his bottom lip across the now-incredibly-sensitive skin of Crowley’s collar bone. “Are you asking for another?”

“Absolutely,” Crowley breathes. 

Fell kisses his shoulder. The press of his lips is feather light. Crowley shivers when he doesn’t stop, just continues to kiss his way very slowly down Crowley’s arm. 

“I also love your arms,” Fell goes on. “You have freckles in the most unexpected places. I want to memorize every one of them. I want to trace the lines between them with my tongue.” He suits actions to words and Crowley gasps. Fell pulls back. “I want to rub sunscreen into your skin and hold your arm tight through winter jackets.” He wraps his good hand around Crowley’s upper arm, grip almost painful on the sensitized skin. “I want you to know the press of my fingers better than you know your own.”

Fell doesn’t seem to expect Crowley to reply. That’s good because Crowley’s rapidly losing access to words. He shakes as Fell let’s go, the tight vice of Fell’s grip relaxing into the feather-like stroke of gentle fingertips again. Fell trails his way down the inside of Crowley’s arm, ghosting his touch over the hollow of Crowley’s elbow. He grins when Crowley twitches. “Ticklish, my dear?”

Crowley forces himself to stay still. “Only sometimes.”

“Oh?”

Crowley realizes he’s tense. Fell doesn’t move. Crowley can’t pretend he doesn’t know what Fell wants. 

He takes a deep breath, grounds himself in the feeling of Fell’s eyes on him, and relaxes. Surrenders. “Yes,” he admits. “I am.”

Fell looks proud. “Good boy.” He leans in to kiss the inside of Crowley’s arm. “The next question is do you _enjoy_ being tickled?”

Crowley doesn’t have to think about it. “No.”

Fell kisses him again. “I’m so proud of you.” He sweeps his fingers onward, past the danger spot. “Well done.”

Crowley manages a shaky laugh. “Does that mean you promise never to use my ticklishness against me?”

“Oh, no,” Fell grins. “Not at all.” He bends forward and bites gently at the meat of Crowley’s forearm. Crowley gasps and Fell lets go, pressing a kiss to the skin instead. “But it means I will think very carefully before I do.”

Crowley’s voice is a breath. “I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with that.”

Fell winks and turns his attention back to Crowley’s arm. He uses his nose to draw a line to the inside of Crowley’s wrists and then hums appreciatively. He licks a broad swipe over the network of small veins there. “So much skin to play with. You are a buffet, my dear.”

Crowley bites his lower lip. “My wrists…” he tries. Squirms. “They’re sensitive.”

“Oh?” Fell trails a finger across the thin skin. 

“Yeah, they— aay!” His voice lifts as Fell’s teeth pinch lightly. 

Fell doesn’t move, holding his position as Crowley whines and shakes. When Crowley starts to sweat, Fell lets go. Crowley, panting, lifts his head and looks down to see a small pinch of white skin standing up above his wrist. 

Fell leans forward and runs the flat of his tongue over it. “Mm.”

Crowley flops his head back against the bed. “Ghah.”

Fell chuckles. He kisses the spot of skin and then turns his attention to Crowley’s palm. His hands come out again. Crowley loses track of time in their soft touch, interspersed at random times with sharp bites from Fell’s teeth. 

Crowley loves the bites more than he thinks he should. Every time Fell takes a tiny bit of skin between his teeth Crowley shudders. The base of his first finger, the crease of his thumb… Crowley’s whole body seizes in a wash of sensation. 

Fell is so _careful._ He never actually breaks skin. Whenever he lets go Crowley relaxes a little further into the bedspread, feels something he hadn’t even known was tense behind his neck let go.

He feels cared for. Precious. It makes him gasp, brings tears to his eyes. “Please.”

Fell kisses the centre of Crowley’s palm. “Please what, dearheart?”

“More.”

Fell looks up, meets Crowley’s eyes, and smiles. He sits up and presses a kiss to the centre of Crowley’s wrist, then one to his elbow and another to his shoulder. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, Crowley, of course.” He places his lips against the bottom edge of Crowley’s collar bone, pauses, and then takes a tiny piece of skin between his teeth.

“Ah!” Crowley shouts, back arching off the bed as Fell bites down. Fell catches him about the chest with his good arm, leans in, and _doesn’t let go._ He bites harder. Crowley nearly screams. Fell releases him.

“There you go, there you go,” Fell soothes. He mouths the bites, kisses it. “Look how beautifully you took that, sweetheart.”

Crowley, panting, looks down. It’s an awkward angle but he can see a tiny, half a centimeter white spot blooming red on the edge of his collar bone. “God.”

Fell tilts his head.

Crowley huffs a laugh and collapses back against the bed. “Such a small thing to hurt so much.” He shivers. “It’s good but it’s— ”

“Overwhelming?” Fell supplies.

“A little,” Crowley agrees. “Not too much, though.” 

Fell hums and kisses the bite again. “Try to relax into it. Just enjoy. Accept the sensations and know that I have you. There’s no one else this time. It’s just us.”

“Yes,” Crowley exhales. It _is_ just them, and he’s warm from the bath and full from the grapes and cheese and bread. The bed is comfortable, the towel is fluffy, and Crowley could, oh— 

He closes his eyes as Fell selects another piece of skin. He could give into it. Surrender. _Really_ surrender. Give up and let go.

He tenses when Fell bites him. Breathes. Shivers when Fell lets go. 

“You can do it,” Fell says quietly. He kisses the skin next to the bite, then the skin next to that, working his way up Crowley’s collar bone. “Relax. Accept. Just take it.”

“I—” Crowley manages, sinking into the bedcovers. Then, “Ahh!” Fell is biting him again. 

He continues that way as Fell works his entire collar bone. Sharp bites that make him seize interspersed with gentle kisses that wind him up instead of helping him let go. The bites are easier to take, the reality of pain instead of the anticipation of it. The sensation catches him, twists inside his chest. He starts to find the release in it. When Fell is biting him the sensation becomes his entire world. The immensity of it overwhelms him. With his trust in Fell as his bedrock, Crowley learns that he can lose himself in the pain. It makes him shake and gasp but it also mutes the colours behind his eyes. Stills the endless hamster wheel of his thoughts. Crowley relaxes into the sensation. Gives into it. 

Accepts.

“There you go,” Fell’s voice says, at once very close and a long way off. “There you go.”

Crowley is floating. He feels protected and safe even as the pain spears him again. It tightens and releases. When it lets go, Crowley could swear he rises above his body. He feels precious and loved and given wings.

Then Fell kisses him. It's a deep, claiming kiss, hot and possessive. Crowley surrenders into it willingly.

Fell pushes closer. He deepens the kiss. He puts his hands on Crowley’s body and his palms are warm. The towel is pushed away. There’s something about the movement that feels different. Fell has always been so careful, so controlled. For the first time Crowley feels a sense of urgency from him, like he needs to get his hands on Crowley _right now._

Crowley unfolds into the feeling, luxuriating in it. He’s the one who’s surrender has pushed Fell over the edge. He’s the one who’s body Fell is pulling close. And because of that, he is Fell’s, and because of that, Fell is his. 

“Look at you,” Fell says, breathless. “Look at you.” 

His touch becomes more urgent. He kisses Crowley again and then again, seeming unable to stop. 

Crowley soars. Fell’s lips, Fell’s hands. Crowley wants it all. He can’t move, can’t do anything but take it, doesn’t _want_ to do anything but take it. The sensations are overwhelming. Hands hot up his sides, fingertips firm over his hips, thumbs dipping deliciously between his thighs. It’s so good. A bonfire turned into a wildfire, raging just at the edge of control. Fell is a firefighter with a lighter in his hands. Crowley gasps, his head thrown back, his body aflame. 

The towel is clinging futilely to Crowley’s legs. It’s folded over one knee from when Fell had pushed it away. Crowley can feel the friction of it as Fell picks up one of his thighs and lifts it, opening Crowley’s knees like a book. “Yes,” Fell breathes, leaving Crowley’s mouth to kiss and bite his way down Crowley’s chest. “Look at you. So happy, so good. I knew you would be. Do you need this sweetheart?” He mouths the skin around one of Crowley’s nipples, bites gently at his areola. “Is this what you need?” 

Crowley tenses in anticipation, sweat breaking out along his body. He can’t say the word, seems to have lost what power of speech he’s ever possessed, even as he swears he shouts loud enough for everyone to hear. _Yes! Yes yes yes!_

Fell fits his mouth over Crowley’s nipple. Crowley soars even as his stomach clenches.

Fell does nothing for a beat. Then two. Then he bites.

Crowley _screams._

Fell doesn’t let go.

Crowley shakes. It’s so much! It spears the muted landscape he’s flown into. Fell doesn’t stop, and he _still_ doesn’t stop, and Crowley feels the pain blossom around him, from the centre of his chest out.

It consumes him. Crowley hadn’t liked pain, still isn’t sure if he _likes_ it, but he accepts it. He gives in to it, relaxes, and a deep, hard, tightly wound part of him that had crystalized during his days on the street finally dissolves. Crowley can trust Fell. Fell is in charge now. Fell has him. Crowley is loved.

He fractures into another plane of existence. Entirely, wholly, at someone else’s mercy. Surrender, one hundred percent.

Fell holds on a moment longer. Then he lets go.

Crowley gasps as the tight squeezing pain abruptly vanishes. He falls back into his body. There’s a pause like a great, gasping breath, and then a delicious tingling spreads through him. 

He gave up and he’s still alive. He trusted someone and they didn’t let him down.

“Well done, very well done. You took that so well, sweetheart,” Fell croons. His hands have slid from Crowley’s legs to his waist. He runs a warm hand up and down Crowley’s side. “Very well done, _so_ well done, you’re a natural, my love.”

Crowley shakes and turns, trying to get closer to Fell, wanting to wrap himself in Fell’s arms. He feels _amazing._ Wrung out and a little detached, still floaty in places. Endorphin rush. Has to be. “I— I— ” He what? “I want— ”

“Anything,” Fell assures him instantly. His touch is firm, grounding. “Whatever you want, darling.”

“Do that again.”

Fell pulls him closer. “Oh?” His voice is throaty, turned on. He nudges Crowley’s head up and then nips the skin under Crowley’s chin. “Did you like that, sweetheart?”

Crowley tips his head all the way back willingly, offering his skin to bite. “Yes.”

Fell’s thumb digs into Crowley’s shoulder. He turns it and scratches the side of his nail down Crowley’s skin. “What about it did you like?”

“I— You— ” Fuck, there’s no way Crowley can _articulate_ this. “Felt safe.”

Fell eyes soften even as his grip tightens. He lets go of Crowley’s shoulder and puts a hand on Crowley’s chin. He kisses Crowley deeply, a possessive, claiming kiss. 

Crowley doesn’t have to think before surrendering this time. He’s loose putty in Fell’s arms. 

Fell kisses him for a long time and then cuddles Crowley close afterwards, running his good hand through Crowley’s dried hair. “Whatever you want, I can give you,” he promises. “Whatever you need, I can provide.”

“I want you,” Crowley manages. All of it, he means to say. He’s still in the clouds, his body a mess of sensation. His hand still tingles from where Fell had bit it earlier, the inside of his elbow aches with the phantom press of Fell’s lips. He wants that everywhere, all over his body, he wants every inch of his skin to know Fell’s touch.

He’s not sure how much of that he can say out loud. Maybe he doesn’t have to. Fell’s eyes sparkle, his grin going nearly feral. “Your wish is my command.”

Crowley loses track of time after that. Fell is as good as his word. He lavishes the same attention he’d paid Crowley’s arm and shoulder on the rest of his body, working his way down Crowley’s chest first. He ignores Crowley’s other nipple and kisses instead his way down Crowley’s ribs. When he’s finished applying little nips there, he moves on to Crowley’s stomach, teasing the fine hair at Crowley’s waist and cruelly ignoring Crowley’s leaking cock. Instead he shifts one of Crowley’s thighs and bites at the place where Crowley’s leg meets his groin. 

Crowley opens his mouth to curse him and groans instead when Fell licks a strip down the inside of Crowley’s thigh. Fell turns his attention to Crowley’s leg, biting and kissing it, working his way down. He doesn’t attack the bottom of Crowley’s foot, just presses his lips to the obviously ticklish bits and bites a mark on each of Crowley’s toes.

Then it’s back up, down the other leg, and up and across to Crowley’s other arm. Fell has to lean over to reach that side but he forbids Crowley from moving, wants him to do nothing by lay there and take the sensations Fell doles out. 

The command makes Crowley hiss even as Fell kisses his way back across Crowley’s other arm. “That’s it,” Fell says low, his voice almost a rasp by this point. He’s been talking nearly the entire time, praise at Crowley’s willingness and commands to be still. “Accept what I give you. Take it, Crowley. Take it all.”

Crowley has long since lost the power of speech. He shakes and arches instead, whines and groans, trying to be good and take what he’s given even as he demands to be given more. 

“So greedy,” Fell admonishes, except it sounds like praise. Even then he doesn’t rush. He moves at his own pace, his smile wide, his touch possessive, his fingers sharp. “You’re like a sponge. You’ll soak up all I have to give you, won’t you? Maybe it’s time to squeeze.”

Crowley has some vague knowledge of what’s coming next. He has time to suck in a breath and then Fell’s teeth are closing around his nipple again. It’s the other one, the last — almost the last, his sadly, neglected groin aside — part of him that Fell hasn’t touched.

His teeth are sharper than last time. Crowley could swear they are, that Fell has honed them somehow on the little bits of skin that he’s nibbled on his way to get here. They spear Crowley’s nipple — pierce — then tighten inexorably.

Crowley throws his head back. “Aghh!” he shouts. His breath is coming hard. 

Fell doesn’t stop. He doesn’t move at all except to snake his good hand around and press it up against Crowley’s throat. 

Crowley’s breath catches. Fell’s hand doesn’t tighten or cut off air but Crowley feels it down to his bones anyway. It marks him, the possession, and when Fell brings his teeth closer together Crowley screams.

He screams for a long time. It feels good. Like letting go, like flying, like falling off the highest cliff and knowing _— knowing —_ there’s a net waiting to catch him. It’s better than a rollercoaster, a drug bust, than stealing Beeze’s coffee. It’s thrilling and it goes on for a long time.

Fell doesn’t let go too early. He hangs on, seemingly tuned in to Crowley’s needs. He must be listening to Crowley’s heartbeats, watching Crowley’s breathing. Even as the pain deepens, shifts, even as the sharp catch of it rears up and spears, Fell doesn’t let go. In fact, he bites _harder._

It’s the last little push Crowley needs. An endorphin burst goes off somewhere in his brain. Everything goes white and pleasure floods him. Distantly, he’s aware of the pressure being eased off, of Fell’s teeth releasing. He feels a warm, strong, _safe_ hand running up and down his chest, murmuring praise. 

Crowley soaks it up, a still-thirsty sponge. He’s been walking through the desert, cloth against his nose, telling himself not to mind the grit in his eyes, and he’s found a lake. A lake of incredible depths, with cool, clean water. He’s taken sips from that lake, even dunked his head a time or two, but now he’s flung his clothes off and dived in, arms spread wide. It’s not a mirage. It’s _real._

Fell kisses him, rewarding his faith with lips and tongue. He cuddles Crowley close and then nips and bites down his way down Crowley’s chest until he finally — _finally_ — reaches the skin behind Crowley’s balls. 

Crowley could weep as Fell settles in between his legs, pushing Crowley’s thighs apart with gentle hands. Instead he arcs his hips, pushing wordlessly into Fell’s hands. He wants. He _wants._

“Yes,” Fell soothes. He presses a kiss to the inside of Crowley’s thigh. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. Let go.”

Crowley relaxes. Fell’s got him. Fell’s _got_ him. 

He’s safe.

Fell licks a strip from Crowley’s ass to his balls. He’s got his bad hand tucked underneath Crowley’s bent knee, his good hand braced on the back of Crowley’s thigh. He uses his thumb to hold apart Crowley’s ass cheeks and _— oh fuck —_ his tongue probes Crowley’s hole. 

“Aagh!” Crowley shouts. He hasn’t been rimmed in a long, _long_ time. It feels stupidly good and sends him high again, making him arch his back and beg for more. He swears he can feel Fell’s smugness as Fell darts his tongue in again, slowly stretching Crowley open. 

“Naaa!!” Crowley clutches at the bedsheets, at his thighs. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Fell huffs a laugh and pulls his tongue back, presses a kiss to the back of Crowley’s thigh. Moving slowly, he shifts until Crowley can see his entire face. 

“You are a menace,” Fell says, but his voice is low and his eyes are fierce. They lock on Crowley and — oh god — his lips are shiny from where they’ve been licking Crowley’s ass. 

Crowley opens his mouth but no sound comes out. Fell lays a hand on his face, thumb braced under Crowley’s chin, fingers firm and perfect against the side of Crowley’s head. Crowley turns his head into Fell’s hand and tries again to make words. “I’m y’r men’ce.”

Fell’s eyes flash. “Yes, you are.” He shifts his hand and pushes his first two fingers into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley sighs in relief and sucks on them greedily. 

Fell smiles. Keeping his fingers in Crowley’s mouth he uses his bad arm to very carefully turn the palm Crowley has left lying on the side of the bed. Twisting it open, Fell braces the back of Crowley’s hand on the side of the bed and then pushes his groin into it. 

Crowley swears when he feels the outline of Fell’s hard cock. “Nugh! Y’s! Ple’se!” 

Fell smirks. “Please, what?”

“Ple’se f-fuck me, you bastard,” Crowley manages around the fingers still in his mouth. 

Fell proves he’s earned the title by shaking his head. “Not yet.” He slides his fingers over Crowley’s tongue, dragging his thumb across Crowley’s cheek as he pulls his hand out. When Crowley whines, Fell leans over and sticks his tongue in Crowley’s mouth instead, kissing him deeply. 

It shuts Crowley up, and also distracts him well enough that he doesn’t realize the hand he had left on the other side of the bed is being pulled over his head until it’s already there. 

“Mmgh?” Crowley tries, and then groans — in frustration this time — as Fell shifts his cock away from Crowley’s hand. “Numghhh,” he protests as Fell picks that arm up and twists it over Crowley’s head as well.

Fell chuckles against his lips. “Eloquent as always, my darling. Here.” Fell shifts Crowley’s hands until Crowley can feel the wood of one of the bedposts against his fingertips. Crowley reaches out with both hands and grasps it. “Good boy,” Fell praises, and Crowley doesn’t even try to resist the shudder that runs through him.

Fell’s eyes darken. “Yes,” he says. “Now, I very much want to tie you to my bed. Unfortunately, I can’t, because if something happens I only have one hand to get you free. That said, you’ll hold on tight to the bedpost for me, won’t you, darling? If I see you let go, I will be very displeased.”

Crowley grips the bedpost with both hands and promises as best he can with his eyes not to let go. Words have failed him again. 

“Good boy,” Fell says, and lays a hand on Crowley’s chest as he says it, as if he wants to feel the reaction he knows is coming. Crowley doesn’t disappoint him. He can’t fathom a time when ‘good boy’ won’t make him shake with hope and neediness and satisfaction inside.

“I’m going to stretch you now,” Fell says, and Crowley pushes down with his hips because _oh god yes._ Fell grins wickedly. “And then I’m going to fuck you. There are, I trust, no objections to that plan?”

Crowley thinks very seriously about arguing that there _are,_ he’s objecting that Fell hasn’t _started_ already, except he’s pretty sure that if he says something Fell will take another half an hour to get there just to mess with him. 

He whines instead. It’s not a very dignified sound, but when has Crowley ever cared about dignity?

Fell grins, clearly amused. “I need an answer, sweetheart.”

“G-god damn you,” Crowley manages, rocking his hips. “I’ve already begged you once, how many more times do you n-need?”

Fell’s eyes darken. “How many more will you give me?”

Crowley can only whine in answer, high in his throat. 

Fell seems to drink it in. “That’s right,” he murmurs, “show me how much you need me.” He brushes his hand down Crowley’s chest, gently sweeps Crowley’s sides, and comes to rest on Crowley’s hips. He bends over and presses a kiss to the patch of skin under Crowley’s belly button. “Show me.”

Crowley rocks again and his cock gives a feeble dribble of precome. Fell drags his tongue over the wet spot on Crowley’s hip without actually touching Crowey’s cock. Crowley tightens his grip on the bedpost and garbles something unintelligible, he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say, except _more._

Fell’s hand tightens on Crowley’s hip. He kneels on the bed and presses a kiss to the back of Crowley’s leg. Then he licks a long stripe over Crowley’s ass, dipping his tongue inside Crowley’s hole briefly, and Crowley’s chest hitches.

Fell presses a grin to the skin behind Crowley’s balls and then — oh fuck yeah — finally lets go of Crowley’s hip and touches Crowley’s ass. He drags a thumb across Crowley’s hole and then lets go. There’s the sound of a bottle opening and then Fell’s hand is back again, his finger wet this time with lube. Crowley presses towards him, eager, and Fell rewards him by slipping a finger inside.

“Yessss,” Crowley groans, letting his head fall back. He stares at the darkness of Fell’s ceiling and rolls his hips, loving the sensation of Fell finally touching him inside. He doesn’t even care that Fell has neglected Crowley’s cock, Crowley could live for the pleasure of Fell’s fingers in his ass slowly stretching him wide.

“Look at you,” Fell murmurs. The press of his tongue joins the wonderful pressure of his finger. The dual sensations feel _amazing._ “Look at you.”

Crowley pants and gasps and rolls his hips, wordlessly asking for more. Fell kisses the back of his thigh and adds more lube, plays with Crowley’s hole for a while, then adds a second finger. He’s pushing deeper inside now, rubbing the edge of Crowley’s prostate, and it’s maddeningly good.

“Please, please, please,” Crowley begs. Dignity? He doesn’t know dignity. “Please, sir, please.”

“In my own time,” Fell promises him. He kisses the side of Crowley’s knee. “My own. I’ll fuck you tonight, my love, don’t worry.”

Crowley gives a strangled cry and falls back again. He grips the bedpost and tries to relax his hips, just take what Fell’s giving him, like he had before. It’s both easier and harder than it had been. Easier because he’s already gone so far, feels primed to submit. Harder because Fell’s fingers are in his ass and it’s intrusive and good and impossible to forget. Every stretch has him panting, every touch to his prostate lights sparks behind his eyes. 

Finally he manages a strange sort of headspace, attached and detached at the same time. He’s aching and needy and parched and Fell is giving him what he wants in slow, agonizing drips but he’s _giving_ it to him and it’s _good._ His hips relax, his knees fall completely open to either side, and Fell praises him with murmured “Good boy” and more kisses to the side of his knees. 

He adds a third finger, finally, and it’s so good Crowley knows he could come from this alone if he were allowed. He knows that he isn’t. Instead Fell stands, grips the back of Crowley’s leg, and leans over to press a kiss to the top of Crowley’s chest. “Ready?”

“Please.”

Crowley’s pretty sure that’s the only word he knows, and even it’s been stripped of meaning. It’s just a word, garbled sounds. It doesn’t encompass the whole. The truth is that Crowley’s ready, has been ready for ages, and yet is so enjoying this in-between space that he kind of wants to stay here forever too.

That is, until Fell presses forward, the head of his cock brushing Crowley’s hole, and Crowley _keens._

Yessss. This is what he needed, what he wanted, what he’s desired since he first laid eyes on this man. Laid out on Fell’s bed, Fell’s cock pushing into him— Crowley grips the bedpost and cries out with how _good_ it is, fireworks going off behind his eyes.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chants, rocking his hips, loving the stretch. “Oh fuck, oh god, yes, sir, _please.”_

“Insatiable,” Fell pants. He changes his grip on Crowley’s leg, pushes in a little further. “Fuck, that’s good.”

Crowley groans and arches his spine, trying to adjust the angle until— _there._ Fireworks and flashing lights and pleasure sizzling along every nerve. “Nuuuugh.”

Fell’s grinning. Crowley’s eyes have fallen shut but he knows Fell’s expression, can hear it in his voice. “That the spot?”

Fell pulls back and Crowley whimpers. He pushes in again and Crowley gasps. 

Then begins a back and forth that Crowley knows is clearly designed to kill him. Fell’s cock is so _fat,_ not long but thick, and it pushes and drags and sets every nerve in Crowley’s body on fire. It’s all he can do to hang onto the bedpost and take it.

“Yes, that’s right,” Fell says. He’s breathing heavily, still wearing most of his clothes. He’s only undone his zipper and the rough brush of his pants on every thrust is driving Crowley insane. “You take my cock so well. You want it all, don’t you darling?”

Crowley’s glad the bedpost is so sturdy otherwise he’d break it in half. “Naanuught.” Oh god, oh god, oh god. Fell’s cock is, Fell’s cock is— oh fuck, is it getting _harder?_ “Ugh!”

“Yes.” Fell’s voice is a rasp. He’s thrusting even harder now, buried balls deep in Crowley’s body, just rocking his hips. He rolls them again and then looks up. He’s been staring at where they’re joined but now he meets Crowley’s eyes. Crowley loves the look on his face, how much he wants this, how much he wants _Crowley._ “Are you ready, my love?”

Crowley can’t say anything, has no words to garble, no breath to speak, but thankfully he doesn’t need to, because Fell shifts and puts a hand on Crowley’s cock.

And Crowley comes. 

It’s an instant, blinding force that knocks the wind out of him. It sends him reeling. Distantly Crowley’s aware of Fell coming, too. Fell’s hip stutter, pause, press forward even deeper inside. Crowley just floats for a minute in utter contentment. 

This. Yes. This.

Eventually he floats back to earth. His body rematerializes around him, sticky and sore and so, so happy. Tingles of pleasure zip up and down his nerves. 

His arms are sore, though. He doesn’t really want to move, but he thinks he might need to. “Canugh? I mean,” he has to stop and stretch his jaw and remember how to speak. “Can I, my hands?”

“Mm?” Fell asks. He lifts his head. He’s slumped forward, still buried in Crowley’s body, and it takes him a visible moment to focus. “Oh, yes, darling. You can let go.” He smiles faintly. “Thank you for asking.”

“‘Course,” Crowley manages, and relaxes his grip. It’s surprisingly hard, his fingers have stiffened. “Mm.” He wiggles his hands and then slowly moves his arms. He’d like to wrap them around Fell but he’s too far away. He reaches anyway. “C’me here.”

Fell huffs a laugh but shifts, moving to pull out.

“No—,” Crowley starts, and then stops. He’s being silly.

Fell smiles, though, picking up one of Crowley’s legs and pressing a kiss to Crowley’s knee before pulling out. “I don’t have enough hands right now to scramble up on the bed and cuddle you without having my legs back, sorry, love.” He wipes himself off on the bedcovers and then shucks off his pants, leaving them in a heap on the floor. “Next time.”

“Nu-uh,” Crowley says, and shakes his head. “We’re not waiting for that cast to come off before we fuck again. You’re getting eight hours. Maybe twelve.”

Fell laughs and climbs up on the bed. He settles in beside Crowley and then tugs him close, cuddling them chest-to-chest. “Is that right?”

“Mm,” Crowley agrees. Fell is so warm. So warm and the bed is so soft and he’s just been fucked within an inch of his life. Exhaustion is very quickly stealing over him. “It’s a good plan.”

Fell kisses him softly, just on a cheek, a loving, protective gesture that has Crowley melting a little inside. “Okay. Somewhere in there we should have dinner, too.”

Crowley’s stomach gives a pathetic growl. “Food.”

Fell laughs and hugs him closer. “Yes, food. Later, though. For now, just rest.”

“I’m just going to sleep for a little bit,” Crowley promises, closing his eyes. “Then we can get up. After all, we’ve got two weeks of this, don’t we.”

“Yes,” Fell agrees with such a smile in his voice, Crowley has to crack his eyes open and look at him. “Yes, we do.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! There is a small epilogue that I'll finish and post at some point :) Thank you all so much for reading and following! EXTRA HUGE thanks to my beta Bellz for all her hard work. I hope you've all enjoyed the ride!


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